


thirty and one, a collection

by elmshore



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Multi, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:27:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 101,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26892904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elmshore/pseuds/elmshore
Summary: A collection of 31 prompts written for a challenge of tumblr, "The 31 Days of Wayhaven." Will feature a variety of pairings, all of which will be labeled with the chapters.
Relationships: Detective/Adam du Mortain, Detective/Ava du Mortain/Natalie "Nat" Sewell, Detective/Mason (The Wayhaven Chronicles), Detective/Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell, Female Character/Falk, Female Character/Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell, Female Detective/Ava du Mortain, Female Detective/Mason (The Wayhaven Chronicles), Female Detective/Morgan (The Wayhaven Chronicles)
Comments: 85
Kudos: 130





	1. new memories (felix/nb detective)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Day 1: Sharp) Felix takes Juniper to see the Agency owned greenhouse, and learns a little more about their past.

Felix is positively beaming as he leads them, hand-in-hand, through the large glass doors and into the greenhouse.

Immediately, the scent of flowers washes over them and they breathe it in, letting it fill them. It is almost as if they are coming to life again, awakening after a long slumber. True to their name, Juniper has always loved nature; there is a peacefulness to be found within it, a serenity that calls to them and assures them that, no matter how horrible things might seem, there is _always_ something worthwhile to find in the world.

All one needs to do is look for it.

“Ta-da! What do you think? I can’t believe all this time you never knew this place was here! If I’d known, I would have brought you here sooner!” Felix exclaims, each word bursting with joy, and he pulls them deeper into the garden, practically bouncing with every step.

Sunlight filters in from the glass panes, but it seems softer, a warm glow rather than a brilliant shine and they wonder if the glass is simply tinted in a way they cannot see, or if it is enchanted somehow. Makes a mental note to ask later, after their little tour is done.

It’s definitely an impressive greenhouse, that’s for sure. Not that they’re really _that_ surprised, given the seemingly endless budget possessed by the Agency. The space is larger than their entire apartment building, circular in shape, and filled to the brim with a wide array of plants and flowers; some of which they recognize, and many of which they _don’t_. 

Truth be told, there is still so much about the Warehouse they have yet to figure out — knows they have only just started to scratch the surface in what they have seen, that there are plenty more secrets to discover about the place that has, in a sense, become like a second home to them.

“I think it’s wonderful,” they tell him and his smile is enough to put the sun to shame; radiant and bright, filling them with a warmth they have found nowhere else. “I had no idea a place built to house supernaturals would even _have_ a greenhouse.”

“Hey! We like flowers too!” A pause, and then he leans in close, voice lowered. “Don’t tell him I told you this, because I’m pretty sure he’ll kill me, but Mason loves being in here.”

Their eyes go wide. “ _Really_? No, no way, you’re pulling my leg.”

He laughs and with his free hand, draws a little ‘x’ mark over his heart. “Nope! I am being totally honest with you, Mr. Grumpy Grumpkins has a soft spot for nature, I swear!”

“Well, I suppose it makes sense,” Juniper muses, tapping a finger against their chin. “Nature can’t really talk back… or, talk at all, I guess.”

As they move further into the greenhouse, through rows of flowers and various plants, Juniper begins to keep a running tally of all the ones they fail to recognize — catalogues the names in their memory, so they might look them up later. Everything about this world is still so new and foreign to them, uncharted territory, and they want to learn all they can.

After all, they are a part of this world now, and knowledge is often the best weapon to have in one’s corner.

Then, it hits them; a cloying smell, fresh and sweet, and they stop. Ahead of them, Felix slows to a halt and turns to look at them, but they pay him little mind — their eyes are too busy searching for the source of the scent. 

“Pip? What’s — ”

A flash of yellow and they smile. “There!” It comes out in a gasp and before he can respond, they are moving. He follows, hand still intertwined with their own, and it takes them only eight steps to reach the bush.

The roses are beautiful, petals vibrant, and this close, the smell is almost overwhelming. Juniper breathes it in, eyes closing, and feels their heart clench.

Felix chuckles, at their side, and says, “Huh, never would have guessed you’d be a rose lover, Pip.”

“My dad used to grow them,” they answer, softly, wistfully. Already, the scent is enough to stir old memories; images of a time long past, often kept tucked away and left to collect dust.

He does still and for a moment, he is silent, weighing their words, before he speaks, quieter this time. “Really?”

Eyes sliding open, they look toward him and he is watching them, golden eyes wide and full of gentle affection. Felix always seems to look at them like that, as if he is continuously in awe of their presence and it is strange, to be on the receiving end of such a thing. This relationship of theirs is still new, fresh, slowly but surely blooming to life and it is, admittedly, a little scary.

Never before have they given themselves to another so completely, but it is just so very easy with Felix — he makes them feel safe and loved, allows them to be vulnerable in a way they never have before, and yes it is terrifying, but also freeing, in a way they cannot fully describe.

If they think about it too long, they feel breathless and off-balance, like the ground has been pulled from under their feet and replaced just as quickly. 

So it is easier, they have found, to _not_ think about it; instead, they fold the feelings up into nice, neat little bundles and store them away, somewhere dry and safe, to be pulled out later, when the mere thought of them _doesn’t_ make their head spin or send their heart into a frenzy. 

Rather, they focus on the now, on the present.

“Yes,” they smile and their eyes slide back toward the bush, “I remember he used to grow them in the little garden just outside my window.” Juniper reaches for the flowers, fingers sliding over the soft petals, and they chuckle. “He always smelled of them, and I’d sometimes wake up to find one, freshly cut, near my pillow.”

“He’d leave you a rose while you slept? That’s adorable, Pip.”

They nod. “He put them all over the house, there was no escaping them,” and it is so easy to recall the sight of them, scattered throughout the home, stored in vases or pressed into books. “Nearly every day of the year, he’d bring Mom a rose, but never on her birthday or on their anniversary,” they glance toward him, grin widening, “no, on those days, roses were off limits. Instead, he’d bring her a bouquet of lupins, her favorite.”

It is one of their earliest memories — their father coming home with a bundle of strange looking flowers, a rainbow of colors, and the smile on their mother’s face, the way her eyes watered and her cheeks turned such a lovely shade of pink. 

A happy memory, one of the few they have, before it all shattered.

Juniper sighs, lips pursing, and there is a sudden tightness in their throat, making it difficult to speak. “After Dad died, Mom… she just let the roses die, couldn’t even stand to look at them,” they tell him, unsure as to _why_ , only that the words simply continue, unbidden and unstoppable. “I tried so hard to take care of them, but I was only four and I had no idea how to properly tend roses. In the end, they didn’t survive the winter, and I remember, I cried for a whole day. It felt like… like I’d lost my dad all over again.”

Warm fingers sweep across their cheek and they start, only realizing then that they’ve been crying. A flush of embarrassment floods through them, and Felix wipes away the stray tears. Lets his hand linger, cupping their face, and they lean into the touch. Takes strength from it, from _him_ , and offers him a smile, a wordless thank-you.

He returns it, an understanding, and when he speaks, his tone is soft, layered with such genuine emotion that it quite nearly knocks the air from their lungs.

“If you want, this could be your rose bush? Maybe,” he trails off, uncertainty flashing in those beautiful eyes, and now it is his turn to blush, cheeks darkening as he adds, “you could grow some new memories here.”

In their chest, a bubble of something far too raw to name rises and settles right under their heart. Swells, growing larger and larger, and they swallow thickly, more tears pricking at the edge of their vision. “I think I’d like that,” they whisper and his expression is so open, so hopeful, and that bubble bursts. Spills through their veins, cascades into their heart, and they lean forward, lips brushing against his own.

The kiss is sweet, a silent promise, and when they pull back, Felix is smiling so wide that for a second, they are blinded by the beauty of it. But then, they are grinning too, and it is fascinating, how one person can bring them so much joy, simply by existing — he has, somewhere along the line, become important to them, a part of their life that they never want to be without.

And if they’re lucky, if they manage to play their cards right, then they never will.

Juniper turns back to the roses, reaches for them again, and hums. “At least I’m more prepared now,” they say, fingers stroking the velvet-like petals, “and besides, I’ve been wanting a garden, can’t have one at my apartment.”

“Great! Now you’ve got a whole greenhouse! I mean, you _will_ have to share it with some of the fae, they really seem to like it here, but they’re super nice! Well, most of them are.”

“Do you think Mason would mind sharing it with me?”

“Nah! He likes you!” When they snort, he laughs and shakes his head. “No, really! I know he insults you and gripes a lot, but that’s his way of showing affection!” Felix assures, and the look on his face is so sure, so utterly confident, that they cannot help but believe him.

Then, in a flash, it is gone.

It twists into something like shock or horror or, perhaps both, and he takes a step back. Drops their hand and the distance, while minimal, feels like miles.

They mean to ask what is wrong, curious as to what might have caused such a visceral reaction, and then they feel it — a small, but sharp sting in their finger. Glancing down, they have their answer. Blood, gathering into a small dot, and then running down, a dark red ribbon along their fair skin.

Oh.

Before they can stop it, their mind begins to wander. _Your blood is enticing_ , he’d told them once, and they wonder, given his attraction toward them, does it still hold true? 

_It doesn’t matter_ , a voice in their mind tells them, firmly, and they shake the thought away. Foolish, to even consider such a thing, when nothing will ever come of it. He has, as far as they know, no intention of ever _tasting_ their blood, and so such things are moot. Instead, they quickly take hold of their shirt and bundle it around their finger, to stem the little flow of blood.

“Sorry, guess I kind of forgot about the thorns,” they say, trying to laugh, and press down, really hoping they’ll be able to get the bit of blood out of their shirt later. When he fails to respond, they look at him, and frown. “Felix?”

“Are you okay? Does it… hurt?” Strained as his voice is, the concern shines through, and they can’t help but smile.

“I’m fine, it stings but, I _think_ I can survive it.”

He moves closer, cautious, and takes their hand. Untangles it from the shirt and brings it closer, staring at the little spot with an uncharacteristic amount of intensity. By this point, the blood has stopped, and he frowns, brows drawn and pinched. “I always forget just how fragile you humans are.”

“Felix, it’s only a little scratch,” they scoff.

“But you don’t heal, Pip!” There is an edge to his tone, a desperation that gnaws at them, and his gaze locks with their own, gold meeting brown. “What if next time it’s _more_ than a scratch? What if it’s like when Murphy — ”

Immediately, they tug their hand out of his grasp and press it against his cheek. “Don’t,” they plead, stern and quiet, and his eyes close, body tilting toward their own, drawn to them as if by some magnetic force. “I’m here, Felix, I’m safe and with you, there’s no need to worry about anything beyond that.” 

Juniper leans forward, bumps their forehead into his own, and smiles. “I’ll be fine, so long as I have you.”

“Then I’m not ever leaving your side!”

They laugh, and give his nose a quick peck, one that has him smiling. “Good, because I don’t plan on letting you get away now.”

His arms wrap around them, comforting and protective, and it truly is amazing, how well they fit together. Almost as if they were made for one another, two halves reunited and made whole again. They breathe together and though the smell of flowers permeates the air around them, his scent is stronger now, envelopes them — rich and warm, a hint of cinnamon and something sweet — and they smile.

“Ugh, every goddamn place I go, can’t you two do this shit somewhere private?”

The moment pops, withers around them, and they break apart, turning to find Mason near the entrance, arms crossed and looking none too pleased by their display.

Lips curling into a smirk, Felix shifts to stand beside them, one arm still locked around their waist and he leans forward.

“You’re just jealous because I got the best looking person in town, aren’t you?”

“Hardly,” Mason grunts, gray eyes sliding between them, and somehow, his scowl darkens as he stalks further into the space. “Just pissed that I can’t seem to go five minutes without finding the two of you glued to each other,” he rumbles, shoving his hands into his pockets before his steps falter and he stops, nose twitching. His gaze lands on them and for a brief moment, they _swear_ concern flickers across his face.

“What happened?”

They lift their hand, showcasing the tiny, barely there mark. “Pricked myself on a thorn, that’s all.”

“Stupid thing to do, all alone out here with a vampire.”

Felix balks at the accusation and steps forward, hands on his hips. “I would _never_ do anything like that to Pip!”

“Yeah, yeah, they’re the love of your life, we get it already.”

The flush is back, creeping along their cheeks and stronger than ever. Clearing their throat, Juniper moves forward and slides their hand back into Felix’s, forcing a smile. “Come on, I should at least get a band-aid on this thing, so it doesn’t sting so much,” they say, desperate to be away from this conversation.

His lips form a little ‘o’ and then he smiles. “Good idea!”

Mason watches them leave, saying nothing, but they don’t miss the way the corner of his hips twitch — though if it is in an effort not to smile or to avoid scowling even _more_ , they can’t be sure. 

Once outside, they shut the door behind them and start back toward the Warehouse, Felix falling into step beside them. He swings their arms between them, up and down. “I bet if you go to Elidor,” he says, a twinkle in his eye, “he’ll probably give you candy or something.”

“I hardly think a little thing like this deserves candy,” they argue, only to have him grin.

“Maybe not, but I know he’d give you some anyway, he likes you!”

“You just want some candy, don’t you?”

He does, at least, have the decency to _try_ and look a little sheepish at being caught. “Maybe? Come on, Pip! It’s worth a shot, right?”

“Okay, _fine_ , I’ll see if I can’t sweet talk Elidor out of some candy and a band-aid.”

His whoop of excitement dances in the air around them, and Juniper smiles. Takes this moment and tucks it away, with all of the others they have created with him; new memories, little snippets of happiness they can treasure for the rest of their life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and/or comments are appreciated! I'm also on [tumblr](https://elmshore.tumblr.com/)!


	2. big bad monster (mason/nb detective)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Day 2: Monster) Mason is tasked with chasing away a maybe not so fake monster in his daughter's closet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My jam is, apparently, soft!Mason so of course I had to amp it up to soft!dad!Mason.

He hears them coming long before they even reach the door.

A soft pitter-patter of bare feet, muffled to human ears against the plush carpet, is what alerts him first — a set in unison, light yet hurried. Their heartbeats follow soon after, loud and frantic, and it is this which causes him to rise, sheets falling to his waist and a shiver passing through him, the cool air pricking at his bare chest.

Thankfully, the sensation is dulled due to the presence now stirring beside him.

Cordelia turns, rolls on to her side to face him and even in the dark, he can see her perfectly; hazel eyes fluttering open, bright even in the shadows, and she looks up at him, lips tugged into a frown. Already, she is beginning to push herself up, and her red hair spills out around her, a messy cascade of fire.

“What’s wrong?” Her voice is quiet, rough from sleep, and she lifts a hand, tucking a bit of hair behind one of those delicately pointed ears, only for it to rebel and fall right back into her face.

Before he can even begin to respond, however, the door is thrown open and he turns his head, gaze landing on the little figures now standing there. Two sets of gray eyes, identical to his own, stare back at him, and they all but shine in the sliver of moonlight which filters in from the window resting behind him.

Almost mirror images of one another, his daughters.

Each possesses the same fiery hair as their mother — along with the same immense tug on his heart — but the difference, of course, is in the small details. Lyra’s hair is shorter, a byproduct of the great summer gum disaster, and, in her little pink nightgown and her trusty stuffed wolf (Mr. Howler, a voice in his head recalls) tucked securely against her chest, she looks downright dainty next to her twin.

Next to her, Luna casts a very different image; with her long hair, tangled and wild, more a bird’s nest than actual hair at this point. Her purple _Sailor Moon_ shirt hangs down to her knees, littered with small stains and even from this distance, he can spy the little tear, just under the right sleeve. Around her neck hangs his old crystal and it sways gently, with each breath.

 _Different as the sun and moon_ , Cordelia likes to tease, something from her childhood, and Mason finds he can’t really argue with the assessment. Not that _he_ needs any visual markers to tell them apart, of course; he knows their heartbeats, unique as fingerprints, and can recognize the cadence of their breath, their scents.

They are, after all, a part of him.

For a moment, no one moves, and there is a tension in the air, heavy and charged, before it finally shatters. It is Luna who does it, as always, propelling herself forward with a speed that surprises even him and she slams against the side of the bed with a quiet _oof_ , arms outstretched and hands grabbing hold of his leg through the blanket.

“Papa! You gotta come quick, there’s a monster in the closet!”

At his side, Cordelia makes a sound he very clearly recognizes as one of amusement and he ignores it, his own worry evaporating immediately.

So, it’s this again.

Slowly, Lyra makes her way over to the bed as well, bottom lip caught between her teeth and when she reaches her twin, she looks up at him, eyes wide and pleading, and _fuck_ , but she definitely gets that ability from her mother.

“It’s true, Papa, there’s a monster in our room,” she says, and clutches Mr. Howler tighter in her arms, fear obvious in her voice. “It’s gonna get us and probably eat us, if you don’t make it go away!”

A hand, featherlight and warm, settles against his lower back and he sighs. She doesn’t need to say anything, her touch speaks volumes all on it’s own, and for a moment, he leans into it; lets the heat of her seep into him, softening the edges and giving him a strength that is unique to her. No need to debate his choice, the decision is a clear one, and so it is hardly a surprise when he moves, grabbing the cover and throwing it off.

Immediately, the girls move back and, grateful that he thought to wear pants tonight, Mason swings his legs over the side of the bed. Plants his feet on the ground and stands. Runs a hand through his hair, rolls his shoulder, and says, “All right, let’s go deal with the monster.”

Their smiles are wide, practically beaming, and he tries — oh, how he tries — to ignore the way his heart swells at the sight. Behind him, Cordelia shifts and when he looks back, she is settling back into bed, a knowing grin on her face.

He heads toward the door, the girls falling into step beside him, and they each slide their hand into his own.

“Good luck with the monster,” Cordelia calls after them, entirely _too_ smug, “show it who’s boss!”

“Don’t worry, Mama,” Luna responds, craning her head back to look and almost stumbling in the process, “all the monsters are scared of Papa!”

Mason will, of course, deny it until the day he dies, but there is a distinct surge of pride at the sheer certainty in her voice.

Six years, they have been in his life, and even now, the trust they place in him — to protect and care for them — continues to make his head spin. He’s used to being relied on, of course; being part of a team saw to that, but this is different. This is more than simple reliance, it is love. They _love_ him, totally and completely, and he still doesn’t know if he deserves it, if he’s any good for this little family he’s found himself with, but he knows one thing.

He’ll do _anything_ to keep them safe, even if that means spending his nights chasing away fake monsters. Ironic, really, since _he_ used to be the monster hiding in the dark.

“So,” he begins as they step out into the hallway, the faint glow of the wall lights causing him to blink, eyes adjusting to the change, “what kind of monster is it?”

“Same one as always,” Luna insists and he cocks an eyebrow, but she is staring straight ahead, eyes fixed on the light purple door that marks their room apart from the others. “The Whispering Lady, we even closed the closet this time but she just opened it!”

Or, more likely, they didn’t close the damn thing all the way, but he keeps quiet. Knows it’s better to just go along with this, for now — they’re a stubborn pair, the twins, and while he’d like to blame it all on Cordelia, he knows _some_ of it is from him. 

Only a little though.

“Well, let’s go tell the hag to leave so we can all get some sleep,” he mutters and, at his left, Lyra presses closer, nearly gluing herself to his side. 

“But, Papa, what if she gets you?”

“Don’t be stupid, Ly, no monster could ever get the best of Papa!”

He chuckles, and catches Lyra’s gaze with his own. “I can handle an old lady, don’t worry,” he reassures and then, gives Luna’s hand a squeeze, adding, “and don’t call your sister stupid.”

Mid-way through their trek, he pauses in front of a pale blue door and peeks inside. Unnecessary, he could hear the steady breathing of his son from the bedroom, but it is almost involuntary, by this point; to check on him, and make sure he is okay. A habit now, perhaps one he picked up from dealing with the twins, when he had _two_ little lives to worry over.

As expected, inside Orion is fast asleep in his crib and, satisfied, Mason continues on, the girls following along quietly.

They reach the room and as he crosses the threshold, he feels them stop, hands slipping out of his own. Deciding not to question it, he merely reaches for the switch along the wall and flicks it on, strands of fairy lights — they’d insisted on having them, after seeing the set strung up in his and Cordelia’s room — flickering to life, casting the room in a soft white hue. From this position, nothing seems out of the ordinary about the space; no strange energy hangs in the air and he frowns. 

Well, of course not, what did he expect?

Shaking his head, he moves further inside and then stops, turns back to them, and says, “You two stay right there,” if only to give them an excuse for their fear. Directs his gaze to the closet door, slightly cracked open, and heads for it.

“Be careful, Papa!” Lyra’s voice, insistent and concerned, an echo of her mother’s.

This whole thing — from being woken in the middle of the night, to the supposed presence of a monster in the closet — is no rare occurrence. Instead, it’s quickly becoming an annoying routine, and this so-called ‘whispering lady’ has become a regular nighttime visitor. Cordelia has told him that this is normal, for some kids, but even she is starting to worry.

And so is he, honestly, but he keeps telling himself that it’s nothing. If it _is_ something, then that would mean he’s a pretty shitty specialist agent — not to mention, _dad_ , — to have let some monster sneak into his own house and make itself at home under his nose.

Reaching out, he takes hold of the handle and yanks the door open, two little gasps echoing behind him. He ignores them for now, tugging on the little string hanging from the ceiling, and light fills the small space. 

All he sees are clothes, assorted toys, and other various items — including a pile of shoes, near the corner — but no monster.

If there really is a whispering lady, she must be fucking invisible. And yet… There is a chill lingering in the closet, noticeable compared to the rest of the room. Mason braces both hands along the doorframe and leans inside, head turning this way and that. But there is nothing, no terrifying specter or ghoul lurking in any of the corners.

Still, he needs to make this convincing, if there’s to be any hope of getting them back into bed.

He draws in a breath, taps out a rhythm with his fingers along the wooden frame, and says, “Hey, old hag? Get the fuck out, before I make you get out!” Throws in a little growl for extra effect, and then waits. Counts to five in his head and lets his arms drop back to his sides. He turns, facing the girls — who look positively amazed at his apparent bravery — and nods. 

“Okay, she’s gone.”

Luna rushes into the room, zips past him, and, catching herself against the wall, leans into the closet. Her eyes scan the whole area, top to bottom, left to right, and when she pulls back, she is smiling toothily up at him.

“You did it!”

Chuckling, lips twitching with a grin of their own, he reaches down and ruffles her hair. “Sure did, Moon pie,” he says and when her nose wrinkles at the nickname, he smirks, “which means it’s time for you two to get your butts back into bed.”

“But what if she comes back?”

He looks to Lyra, still hovering near the door, and sighs. Closes the closet door, securely this time, and moves back toward her. Bends down, lifting her into his arms, and she settles immediately, one arm hooking around his neck.

“She won’t,” he tells her, turning and making his way toward her bed — the one that so helpfully has _Lyra_ painted onto the wood, adorned with a little harp — and off to his left, he hears Luna following, climbing into her own bed; this one, too, branded with her name and a crescent moon to accompany it. A little arts and crafts project of Cordelia’s, when it came time for the girls to get actual beds.

Pulls back the covers and sets her down gently, waiting as she wiggles into a comfortable position, and then, carefully, tucks the blankets around her, making sure _not_ to cover Mr. Howler; he learned his lesson the last time he did that, and got an earful about it.

“Do you promise, Papa?” And there she goes again, with that damn look and those big eyes and Mason swallows, heart in his throat. Dips down and drops a kiss to her forehead, before guiding her to lie back down.

“Yeah, Jelly bean, I promise.”

And she believes him. Smiles, worries gone, and rolls onto her side, with Mr. Howler still safe in her arms. Honestly, he’s surprised the old thing is still in one piece, for as much as she drags it _everywhere_ , but he knows it’ll last; the spell Cordelia put on it will see to that.

Straightening, he pivots and Luna is already curled up in bed, fingers absently toying with the crystal around her neck. Gives her a quick kiss as well, and makes sure she is settled, blanket pulled up to her chin. Done, he heads back to the door and flicks off the light.

“See? I told you Papa would kick the monster’s ass.”

“Lu! We’re not supposed to say that word, Mama said!”

“Why? Papa says it all the time.”

He grins, unable to help himself, and stops just outside the door, his hand gripping the knob. “Go to sleep, both of you,” he orders, hears a few giggles and then a ‘yes, Papa’ in perfect sync. They are still whispering as he shuts the door and begins his walk back down the hallway.

Stops along the way, to check on Orion one more time, and when he finds the boy still asleep, he continues on, feet carrying him back to his bed and to his wife.

When he reenters, Cordelia is waiting for him, illuminated by the dim moonlight spilling into the room, and smiling in that special way of hers, the way that always leaves him dizzy, heart pounding in his chest.

“Did you take care of the big, bad monster?” She asks and he snorts, the sound only causing her to giggle. He approaches the bed, turns, and takes a seat, back to her as he sets to work removing his pants. Gets them off and as he drops them to the floor, she is there, arms draping around his neck, her body pressing close to his own, the warmth of her spilling into him.

A kiss, soft as flowers, is planted against his shoulder and his eyes close, body lulled by the calm of her presence. Mason lifts a hand, laces it with one of her own, and raises it to his lips, placing a kiss along her knuckles. 

“Something felt weird,” he whispers and feels her tense, ever so slightly. “Don’t know if it’s anything or not, that’s never been my area, but this is getting out of hand.” Maybe it had been nothing, just air being weird or whatever, but this can’t keep going on.

At this rate, no one (except maybe Orion, lucky bugger) will be getting any proper sleep.

She rests her chin in the crook of his neck and sighs, fingers tracing circles idly over his heart. “I’ll speak to Yvette tomorrow, no doubt she’ll know who to speak to, regarding matters like this.”

“If she doesn’t, I’m sure she can yell enough to get someone who does to pay attention.”

Her laugh is quiet, breath tickling his skin, and she kisses him again, this time on the back of his neck. “It’s a viable method, in some cases,” she agrees and then she is leaning away, and oh, her pull is gentle, yet effective. He allows her to draw him back down, curls himself around her, and she settles nicely into his hold, fitting perfectly against him.

Fingers glide through his hair, nails scraping along the scalp, and he hums, eyes closing of their own accord. Melts into her touch, body languid and loose. “We’ll figure it out, love, don’t worry,” she murmurs, and he knows she is right.

They will figure it out, together, because they always do.

And if there really is some creepy old lady hanging out in his kid’s closet, well, she’ll get to meet the _other_ monster living in this house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and/or comments are appreciated! I'm also on [tumblr](https://elmshore.tumblr.com/)!


	3. good morning (farah/male detective)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Day 3: Mirror) Farah wakes up to a realization, while Noah sings along poorly to the radio.

When she wakes, she is alone.

The room is awash in golden light, as thick beams of sunlight stream in through the half-open blinds and Farah rolls onto her back, eyes sliding closed again. Stretches, until the tips of her toes can just about touch the edge of the bed and her fingers tap against the headboard. Feels something in her back _pop_ and goes loose, body languid.

Rolls over again, onto her side this time, and reaches for the now empty spot beside her.

It is still warm, so he hasn’t been up _too_ long, at least. His scent still clings to the sheets, lingers all around her, and she inhales — cedar and sage, a heady scent, reminding her of the woods he loves so much. Allows it to curl around her, like a hug, and smiles.

Farah has never been much of a nature buff; there’s always plenty of fun stuff to do inside or in a city, but Noah _might_ just be winning her over to the idea. A little. A _tinsy_ , tiny bit.

She flops back over, a few stray curls bouncing into her eyes, and she attempts to blow them away, but only succeeds in getting them to flutter up, mockingly, and then fall right back into her face. Decides to ignore them, for now, and focuses, instead, on the sound of him — crystal clear, winding down the hallway, from the kitchen, and into his bedroom, and she giggles. He is humming along to some pop song; every so often, he’ll start to sing along, words mumbled and not matching the rhythm at all, but it’s just so _cute_ that she could listen to it forever.

 _I could wake up like this for the rest of my life_ , she thinks, and now her smile is bigger, cheeks burning. Farah laughs again, louder this time, and covers her face with her hands, heart fluttering like a butterfly in her chest. She probably looks super silly, but she doesn’t care — she’s just too happy!

He _chose_ her! No hesitation, no second-guessing, he just looked at her and chose her and that’s never happened before! Oh, sure, she’s had people show interest before — and for damn good reason! — but none of them have ever looked at her the way Noah does. Sometimes, she’ll catch him looking at her and just smiling and _ah_! If she thinks about it for longer than, like, a few seconds, she might just combust!

Being here with him, waking up in his bed and listening to him sing along to the radio, it’s all so… _normal_ , so perfectly mundane and human and oh so easy, so _right_ , that she never wants it to end.

And it won’t, not if she has anything to say about it! Farah knows the others don’t particularly understand, or even approve, of this relationship; well, okay, maybe _Nat_ does, in her own way, but Ava thinks it’s too dangerous and Morgan, well, Miss Grumpy-Pants is probably just jealous that _she_ snagged the hottest guy in Wayhaven first.

They’re her family, and she loves them — she’d been all alone in this new world, scared and cut off from the only place she ever knew as home, and then they were there, offering her a sense of belonging, a _new_ family. And she won’t ever forget it, of course not, but she’s just so _happy_ with Noah! He makes her feel special and loved and like she matters.

And she loves him too. A lot. More than she can even put into words, and that’s saying something for her — she never runs out of words!

Distantly, the song changes, and she hears him making his way back toward the bedroom. Except, then he stops, takes a detour, and she blinks. Turns her head and tries to peek through the crack in the door, but she can’t see _anything_ from her current position and that simply will not do.

Throwing the sheets off, she sits up and shivers, the air hitting her bare skin. Swings her legs over the edge of the bed, feet hitting the carpet below, and stands. Her golden eyes dart around the room, at the various bits of clothing strewn all about, and okay, maybe they got a little _too_ into things last night — not that she’s complaining, of course!

In the end, she spends all of a minute and a half trying to find _her_ clothes, so she decides to make things easier on herself; grabs his shirt and wiggles it over her head.

As expected, the thing is _huge_ on her — he’s got what, eleven inches on her? — and very nearly swallows her, hanging down to her knees, but oh, is it comfortable. So soft and best of all, it smells like him; the scent wraps around her and she hugs herself, that little ball of joy in her chest threatening to explode at any minute.

She opts _not_ to bother finding her underwear, giggles as she imagines the scandalized look on Nat’s face, and instead, heads for the door. Pauses on the way, glancing at the clock — a quarter past seven — and cocks her head.

Did he have work? Nah, he’d have said something last night, and besides, he always goes for runs before work (why, she has _no_ idea), and he can’t have been up that long. Curiosity at an all time high, she pads out of the room and down the short hallway, head bobbing to the music still playing in the kitchen. Can’t recognize the song, but loves the beat, infectious and bright.

Makes it halfway down the corridor before she finds him in the bathroom.

It’s a small room, enough room for the basic amenities and little else. Whoever owned the apartment before him had, apparently, tried going for a beach theme — the entire space is painted in a borderline garish mix of teal, yellow, and tan, with hideous starfish and shell decorations lining the walls. 

He always says he’s going to redo it, but never does; probably never will, because she’s pretty sure he _kind of_ likes it, even though he says he hates it.

And to be honest, it’s really not that bad… it even matches the ridiculous shower curtain he’s got hung up, depicting cute little cartoon dinosaurs having a day at the beach.

Noah is in front of the mirror, leaning forward, one hand gripping the counter and the other turning his head this way and that. He’s dressed in a pair of jogging pants which hang loosely at his hips and, from this angle, she can _just_ make out the trail of honey blond hair running from his belly button and down, vanishing temptingly past the hem of his pants.

He really is a _gorgeous_ man, her Noah. Broad shoulders, muscles for miles, and these cute little dimples that come out when he smiles, which he does a lot, thankfully. Athletic, lean, and _tall_ , to the point where she has to crane her neck just to look up at him. 

Not that she minds, usually anyway, since he’s so damn pretty to look at.

“You know,” he says and she jumps, his thick voice snapping her right out of her musings and back to reality, “it’s rude to stare, love.”

She smiles and moves into the doorway, leaning against the wooden frame and plants a hand at her hip. “Well, stop being so good looking, and I won’t have to stare.”

His laughter is like sunshine, warm and light and leaves her dizzy, drunk on the sound of it. He turns to look at her and she doesn’t fail to notice the way his gaze travels over her form, blue eyes brimming with adoration and wonder and _wow_ , is it ever nice to be looked at like that. There is attraction clear in those eyes, yes, but it’s the _love_ that takes her breath away and has her heart doing these little strange dances all over the place.

“I’m pretty sure that _this_ ,” he starts, hand reaching toward her, fingers toying with one of the buttons along the front of his shirt, “belongs to me.”

“Well, _you’re_ certainly not using it,” Farah argues, her own gaze lingering on his bare chest, and she tips forward, hand curling around the doorframe to keep herself steady. “But, if you want it back so bad, you’re free to take it.”

Noah smirks, the expression sending a jolt of heat zigzagging through her, and braces his hand on the wall beside her, leaning down. She raises up, on her tip-toes, and meets him halfway, and when his lips meet her own, it’s like fireworks. It is so easy to melt into him, to lift her arms and hook them around his neck, to pull him closer.

A hand curls around her waist and her lips part for him, invites him inside. He tastes like citrus and cream, sweet and tart and bright, popping on her tongue like candy. Farah never wants to taste anything else.

She moans as his tongue slides over her own and that heat is spreading now, gathering deep in her belly, ready to consume her, but then he is gone. Breaking away, moving out of her grasp, and she huffs, glaring up at him in frustration.

When all he does is grin, she drops her arms and folds them across her chest. “That’s just rude, Noey!”

“I’d rather like to think of it as keeping you wanting more,” he muses and then his attention is back on the mirror, a hand rising to stroke his beard.

Rolling her eyes, she skirts around him and spins on her heel. Grabs the counter behind her and hoists herself up, so she is sitting atop it, legs kicking in and out. Smiles and leans over, partially obscuring his view. 

“Thinking of shaving it all off?”

The look of absolute horror on his face is enough to make her giggle. “Farah, light of my life, I can’t believe you would even _joke_ about such a thing! This is my pride and joy, a product of much life and care, I can’t just,” he drops his voice, eyes darting nervously toward the electric razor sitting only a little ways away, and says, “ _shave_ it off.”

“Product of love and care, huh?”

“Okay, fine, you caught me, I actually stole all of the other beards in town and absorbed their power, to create the _perfect_ beard.”

Farah snorts, heels bouncing off the cabinet doors, and now it’s her turn to smirk. “Really? Should let the Agency know, pretty sure if you can do that, then they’d raise your Tier ranking like _that_ ,” she tells him, punctuating her point with a snap of her fingers.

He chuckles and shakes his head, turning to face her, leaning his hip against the counter. “No, this power is better left a secret, the world isn’t ready for it yet.”

“That’s so very self-sacrificing of you.”

“I know, truly, I am a saint,” he laments, placing a hand over his heart, and she breaks, laughing so hard her stomach hurts.

Noah joins her and _this_ , she realizes, is what she really wants for the rest of her life. To be here, with him, smiling and laughing and just _existing_ together. _Please let him want that too_ , a little voice in her mind pleads and when he takes her hand, fingers entwined with her own, her heart swells.

“Come on, Fi, since you’re up now, you can help me make breakfast.”

“You mean the breakfast I don’t eat?” She questions, grinning as she hops off the sink and lets him lead her out of the bathroom and back into the hallway.

“Of course! You know I cook best when I’ve got a beautiful vampire watching me.”

Her laughter joins the music as they make their way down the corridor and she squeezes his hand, determined, more than ever, to hold onto this precious little life they are building together. No matter what other crazy things life might throw at them, she won’t let this, or him, be taken from her.

Not now, not _ever_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and/or comments are appreciated! I'm also on [tumblr](https://elmshore.tumblr.com/)!


	4. showing off (adam/nb detective)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Day 4: Strength) Adam thinks he's being subtle about his showing off, but Isidore is more observant than he thinks.

**i. the tree**

It all started with the tree.

Adam’s arrival outside of the station had been a surprise, but a pleasant one, and when he offered to accompany Isidore on his walk home, the young man agreed with perhaps a little _too_ much enthusiasm. Though, he hardly thinks he can be blamed for it — not when he’s spent nearly two months being actively avoided by the vampire.

He’s got no proof of it, but it certainly felt that way at times.

Which makes the sudden appearance of the large roadblock all the more irritating. An inconvenience, to be sure, it looks like it’s been here for quite some time, though Isidore can’t quite recall hearing about a tree falling. 

_Guess that answers the age old question_ , he muses to himself, sighing as he surveys the wide trunk.

The thing is large enough that climbing over it on his own will be impossible — his height and obvious lack of physical prowess both ensure that — and it’s long enough that going around will _also_ be impossible, as the surrounding thick bushes on either side look particularly uninviting.

“I suppose we’ll have to turn back,” he states, only to hear a slight scoff a little behind him and to his right.

“There will be no need, Detective.”

With absolutely no warning or even a hint of what he is about to do, Adam strides forward, brushes past Isidore and approaches the tree. Bends his knees and, with about the same amount of effort he might use to open a stubborn jar lid, grabs the trunk and lifts. Hoists it right off the ground and heaves it to the side, as if it were made of paper mache and not, in fact, an _actual tree_. The entire time he is silent, says nary a word and Isidore assumes that it is because in his mind, such a feat is equivalent to simply picking up a piece of stray trash and tossing it into the bin.

Done, Adam takes a step back and begins to clean off his hands, knocks them together in an effort to remove the dirt and mossy debris clinging there. When he turns, it is easy enough, even with the familiar aviators covering his eyes, for Isidore to know he is looking right at him, rooted to the spot and looking utterly dumbfounded.

“I have removed the obstacle, Detective.”

 _You sure as hell did_ , a voice in his mind purrs, and he does his best to chase it away. Because yes, it had been incredibly attractive, watching him toss a tree like it was no heavier than a rubber ball, but he can’t just _say_ that. So, instead, he says, “That was amazing, Adam!”

Those lips quirk, just a hint of a smile curving into place, but in the next second it is gone and the vampire looks away, back down the now open pathway. “My intention was not to impress you, I was merely ensuring that our walk back to your apartment can be conducted as quickly as possible,” and Isidore might have believed him, were it not for the small hitch in his tone.

_The gentleman doth protest too much, methinks._

“Shall we continue, Detective?”

He agrees, and though the rest of the walk is far from peaceful — from the sudden appearance of a _very_ sick supernatural, to Bobby’s extremely unwanted presence, none of it compares to the larger problem he finds himself forced to contend with.

A recurring image that haunts him, even as he (finally) climbs into bed for what he hopes will be, at least, a few hours of sleep. The image of a certain sharply dressed vampire, now strangely shirtless, plucking trees out of the ground as if they were nothing more than weeds.

It follows him for a week, and during that time, _he_ is the one doing the avoiding.

* * *

**ii. the car**

To say that today hasn’t been his day would be a _massive_ understatement.

First, his alarm fails to go off and so instead of his usual thirty minute window, he’d been left with eleven minutes to not only get ready, but to get out of his apartment and down to the station.

Unsurprisingly, he’s late for work, and runs into not only the Captain, but the Mayor, and is forced to play mediator between yet _another_ fight, all the while plucking up the papers from the precarious stack on his desk that had, _of course_ , decided to fall right as he tried to sit down. One truly annoying piece gets stuck under a table, and he spends a good five minutes trying to retrieve it, only to find it ruined from a piece of melted candy.

He also finds _three_ makeshift paper airplanes, and makes a mental note to keep Felix under closer supervision.

Next, the coffee machine. Broken — _again_ — and on any other day, Isidore wouldn’t have cared. Caffeine is usually a pass for him, too bitter and always leaves him jittery, like he’s being pulled in a hundred different directions all at once. 

Except, today, all he wants is something to take the edge off, just one single cup of the disgusting bean juice to maybe, _maybe_ , help things feel a little better.

And to be fair, he does get the coffee, just… not in a cup. His attempts to fix the machine are rewarded with a final spurt of lukewarm coffee all over his nicely pressed shirt and vest, before it dies the final death.

After that, it becomes a series of little things, each one joining the same growing pile. Stubs his toe on damn near every corner or hard surface he comes across, loses any pen he so much as _looks_ at for too long, a spider falls onto his arm during a phone call, and more. 

So, so much more. 

By the end of his shift, Isidore’s head is throbbing and all he wants is to head home, take a shower, and curl up on his couch with a bucket of ice cream and some baking shows.

Yet, it seems the universe has one last curveball to throw at him.

He heads for his car, short legs carrying him as fast as they’ll go, and as he nears the door, he reaches into his pocket. Yanks out his keys and fumbles with them, shuffling through the various keychains and actual keys, most of which he’s pretty sure he could take off but never does, and then, they’re gone. Slipping out of his grasp, bouncing off the sidewalk, and right under his car, and it’s as if something inside of him snaps.

That final, tenuous tether keeping his temper in check breaks and he lets out a loud, wailing cry. Slams both hands against the roof of the car, arms shaking from the impact, and almost relishes the pain. Does it again, and then once more, for good measure. 

Naturally, this fails to make the keys reappear magically in his hand, and resigned, he sighs and slowly lowers himself to the ground. Bends down, on his hands and knees, and peers under the vehicle, his goal resting smack in the middle, taunting him. Groaning, Isidore shifts his weight to one arm and stretches out the other, attempting to reach the keys.

Manages only to _barely_ brush his fingers against a bottle opener in the shape of a winking cactus before the whole thing rolls _away_ from him, because of _fucking_ course it does.

Stupid short arms.

“Detective?”

Isidore jumps, elbow smacking against the underside of his car, and he curses, head snapping up only for his eyes to go wide, landing on the _last_ person he wants to see right now.

_Seriously, just who did I piss off?_

Adam stands a foot or so away, on the sidewalk, and though his face is schooled into its usual neutral expression, even he can’t quite hide the flicker of confusion in those icy green eyes, brow quirked ever so slightly. His arms are held behind him, posture rigid and straight, and in this moment, Isidore feels very much like a child who has been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

Which is ridiculous, but tell that to the flush spreading across his face.

 _Best get this over with_. Steels himself and pushes to his feet, brushing his hands off as he tries to smile. “Oh! Uh, hi, Adam!” Smooth, real smooth. “Um, what are you doing here?”

“I was on patrol and noticed you… on the ground,” Adam pauses, gaze sliding between Isidore and the car, lips thinning into a little frown. “Is something amiss with your vehicle?”

The whole fucking _day_ has been amiss, but he doesn’t say that — it’s hardly Adam’s concern, after all — and so, he merely jerks a thumb toward the car. “I dropped my keys and, uh, I can’t reach them.” Because the universe decided it would be a good idea to give him the arm reach of a tyrannosaurus rex, apparently.

“I see.” A curt response, one he is used to but that, at the moment, is enough to make his eye twitch. Then, Adam is moving toward him and he frowns.

“Move aside.”

“Why?”

“I intend to help you in retrieving your keys, but I cannot do so if you are in the way.”

Biting his tongue in an effort to keep from making a comment he _knows_ he’ll regret later, he only nods and does as requested of him. Steps away from the car and back onto the sidewalk. Adam passes by him, silent as ever and… wait, is that cologne? He sniffs the air and yes, yes it _is_ cologne. The same as before, in the sewers, and he fights to hide a sudden smile.

Right, just on patrol.

If the other man takes notice of his actions, he pays them no mind and stops at the front of the car. Reaches down, hands curling underneath the bumper, and then he lifts, the car rising off the ground as if it weighed absolutely nothing.

Probably doesn’t, for someone like him.

Never once, during the entire ordeal, does Adam look at him again. His gaze is fixed squarely ahead and he is silent, merely holds the car and waits.

Quickly, Isidore dashes forward and crouches, snatching the keys off the ground. Clutching them tightly to his chest, he hops back and smiles. “Okay, got them!”

Adam lowers the car with ease and sets it gently back down. Dusts off his hands and then, as if returning to his default settings, folds them neatly behind his back and glances toward Isidore, who offers him the same smile. One that is, of course, not returned.

“Thank you, Adam! I really appreciate it, you’re a handy man to have around!”

That stone mask never cracks, shows no sign of breaking, but Isidore is a keen observer. He’s grown used to reading the other man’s moods and can tell, even without any visual markers, that the other is _very_ pleased with his words.

Even if he quickly ruins the moment by saying, “Of course, but it is hardly worthy of praise. Instead, you should be more careful in the future with such things.”

Really, should he even be surprised anymore? Perhaps not, but it does little to stop the wave of disappointment washing through him and, with the wind now sufficiently knocked out of his sails, Isidore sighs and unlocks his car. Climbs into the driver seat and before he shuts the door, says, “Right, well, thanks again.”

He shuts the door before the other can even begin to respond and starts the car, keys jingling. Pulls away and as he does so, he _definitely_ doesn’t check the rearview mirror, to catch a fleeting glimpse of the slowly shrinking figure of the vampire still standing there, who most definitely _isn’t_ watching him leave intently.

* * *

**iii. the couch**

Isidore will admit to having a teeny, tiny problem with things being perfect. Or, maybe perfect isn’t the best word? Rather, he likes things to match.

From perfectly coordinated outfits, to perfectly arranged home decorations, Isidore _thrives_ on symmetry, on things fitting together just right, everything in its proper place and nothing _out_ of place. Ever since childhood, he’s been this way; perhaps out of a need to cope, with the prolonged absences of his mother or the sudden death of his father? 

He’s sure there’s a reason for it, one he could pay someone a lot of money to figure out, if he really wanted to. Which, of course, he doesn’t.

Besides, at the moment, he has a much larger issue to deal with; his couch is off-center.

“Hm, no,” he muses and gives his hand a little wave, “a little more to the left, I think.”

“It was just in that position, Isidore.”

Sighing, he folds his arms across his chest and throws his husband a disbelieving look. In return, Adam gives _him_ a look that says if this isn’t over soon, he’s going to take the couch in his grip and throw it out the nearest window. And that simply will not do, not after how much they paid for this couch.

“No, it was too far to the left, so you moved it, and _now_ , it’s too far to the right.”

“That,” Adam groans and takes a moment to compose himself, before adding, “that makes no sense.”

“Just move the couch, Adam.” A pause and then he smiles, tilting forward. “Please?”

His only response is a sigh, heavy and resigned, but the other _does_ move the couch. Picks it up and inches it to the left. Waits, green eyes darting back to his husband, and the question, even left unspoken, is clear.

Stepping back, Isidore cocks his head to the side and surveys the scene, and ah, yes, _much_ better. “There! Yes, now it’s centered!”

He _swears_ he hears a ‘finally’ as Adam sets the couch back onto the floor and moves away from it, a hand rubbing at his shoulder before he heads over, to stand next to Isidore. “I take it you are pleased now?”

“Yes, quite pleased, thank you,” he laughs and twists, hand resting atop Adam’s bicep as he raises up, giving the other a peck on the cheek. “Besides, I know you enjoyed it.”

A loud scoff, one that is betrayed by the small smile curling at the corner of his lips. “Spending an hour attempting to negotiate the position of a couch? I would hardly call that enjoyable.”

“No, I meant you showing off all those muscles for me.”

“I was _not_ showing off for you.”

“Sure you were, it’s been like, your thing for ages now,” Isidore counters and pulls away, feet carrying him toward the couch, aware of Adam following close behind. He takes a seat, the plush cushions welcoming him instantly and sinks down comfortably.

Adam takes his spot beside him once more and his weight creates a slight imbalance, enough to have Isidore shifting toward him. An arm curls around his waist and he smiles, leaning in, head resting against the blond’s shoulder, eyes taking in the now finished living room.

The house is newly bought, a spur of the moment decision on both of their parts, and even though it’s still a bit scary, being an actual homeowner, Isidore can’t deny how exciting it is. This is a place for _them_ , the first real step in this life they are building together, and it’s perfect. Far away from his old apartment, and all of the bad memories it held, but not _too_ far from the Warehouse.

A space for the two of them, a little world of their own, and so who can blame him, for wanting to make sure it’s just right?

“It has _not_ been my thing,” Adam murmurs, and he chuckles, eyes sliding closed.

“It’s okay, Adam,” he reassures, stretching his arm across the other and taking hold of his hand, fingers lacing together. “Nothing to be ashamed of, and besides, I’ve definitely enjoyed it.”

“I noticed.”

He smirks. “Ah, so you admit that you _were_ aware of what you were doing?”

The man at his side tenses and he bites his lip, in an attempt to keep himself from losing it yet again. Adam snarls, more irritation than true anger, and pulls Isidore tighter against him. “You are insufferable,” he whispers, cheek resting atop Isidore’s head. 

“And yet, you still married me, didn’t you?”

Silence, for a moment, and then their joined hands are being lifted. Adam’s lips brush along the tops of his knuckles and it’s silly, how his heart goes into a tizzy at the contact, or the way his cheeks burn. Married they are, but his husband can still make him feel like a schoolboy having his first crush all over again.

“Yes, I did.”

He tilts his head back, to look up at this man he has pledged himself to, and the look on his face, one of open affection and care, green eyes bright with love, is enough to take the air straight from his lungs. No words come to him, heart too full to speak, and so he pushes up, their lips meeting, and yes.

This is perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and/or comments are appreciated! I'm also on [tumblr](https://elmshore.tumblr.com/)!


	5. all of himself, to her (mason/nb detective)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Day 5: Moon) Cordelia takes Mason out to watch an eclipse, but Mason would rather watch her instead.

After tonight, it will be damn near impossible to go back to stargazing in the city.

The clearing is small, resting just past the treeline of the forest that sits on the outskirts of Wayhaven. Dotted with wildflowers and located on what could barely be considered a hill, it feels separated from the rest of the world. A place all their own, meant only for the two of them.

Out here, there are no distractions or irritations; no sounds or smells to prick at him, leaving him feeling jagged and fractured, teeth gritting so hard he might as well be Ava. Which is, to be quite honest, a terrifying thought.

Instead, it’s peaceful — just the woods, the stars, and _her_.

She is, as always, a soothing presence at his side. Softening the sharp edges of the world around him, dampening all of the negative sensations, until they fall away and he is left feeling calm, like a blanket wrapping around him, enveloping him completely. 

And sure, she feels a _little_ different now, with the seal on her fae blood lifted and gone — there is a lightness about her, glittering and warm. A touch of magic, something old and ancient that flows through her blood, but underneath all of it, she’s still the same, still his Cordelia.

A very _excited_ Cordelia, at that.

Tonight is, apparently, quite a special night for her; and for everyone, to hear her talk about it. A total lunar eclipse, the first in nearly two years she’d told him. Mason doesn’t exactly see _why_ this is so thrilling for her — the moon either goes a bit dark or turns red, then it’s right back to normal. No big deal.

Except, it is a big deal for her. 

For the last week and a half, she’s talked his ear off about the event, and he’s fairly certain in just this short amount of time, he has managed to learn more than he has in the last hundred years of his life. Which is, he’ll admit, pretty damn impressive. Everything from how at least _seven_ different ancient cultures viewed the phenomena to how it _actually_ works — that it’s the moon moving into the Earth’s shadow, or that the reason it turns red is because of something she called Rayleigh scattering.

Whatever the _fuck_ that is.

And normally, none of this would mean a damn thing to him. It’s the moon, for fuck’s sake! He is a vampire, not a werewolf; the moon has _zero_ impact on him or his life. All he cares about is that it stays up there, floating in space and minding its own business. 

Not like the moon in that weird game of hers, the one he watched her play over the two days when she’d been sick and confined to her apartment as a result. He shudders now even remembering the thing, with those crazy eyes and creepy smile. Yeah, no, _fuck_ that thing.

But, for some reason — okay, scratch that, he _knows_ the reason — the more she talked about it, the more into it he became. There is something so infectious about her excitement, the way her eyes shine and she gets animated, talking more with her hands, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t help but want to learn more. 

Could listen to her go on and on about anything, because the sound of her voice is better than any music.

Truthfully, it feels like a bit of an understatement to say she’s _only_ excited; this date has been marked on her calendar for almost a full two years — long before any of them came into her life, and she found herself thrown into the supernatural world. 

Which makes this whole thing… weird for him, in a way. Their relationship — and _fuck_ , does it feel strange, using that world in relation to himself — is still new, fresh. Mason isn’t stupid, he knows he loves her and that, for whatever insane reason, she loves him too, so that’s not the issue here. He wants to be with her, she wants to be with him, so here they are.

Being with each other.

The _issue_ , if it can even be called that, is in how she is now including him in things. Bringing him into her life, and she’d already been doing that before, yeah, but this is different.

It is her effortlessly making him a part of her life. Adapting to his suddenly being there, as if that is how it’s always been, as if he were always meant to be here, with her. But more than that, the true difference is that he… _likes_ it.

He wants it, even. More than he’s ever wanted anything in his long life and that terrifies him, because he has no fucking idea how to handle this. Has never done anything like this before, not that he can remember at any rate, and so he’s going into this blind, both hands tied behind his back and hoping — _praying_ — that he doesn’t fuck it up.

Because he always fucks things up, somewhere down the line. Takes a good thing and ruins it, like clockwork.

“Mason? Are you with me?”

Her voice, lilting and bright, cuts through the haze of thoughts now filling his head and he quickly shakes them away. Gathers all of them up and shoves them into a worn-out chest, locks it up tight, and throws a cover over it, to deal with some other time.

Or, ideally, never, which has always worked out so well for him in the past. Focuses, instead, on the woman next to him.

Cordelia watches him through hazel eyes, bright with affection and the small ring of amber within them seems to shimmer like the stars overhead. It reminds him of fire, flickering and strangely inviting. She is aglow, fair skin illuminated by the remaining light of the moon, now partially shadowed, hanging above. A small, gentle smile rests on those full lips; the same smile that always sends his heart into a little frenzy, leaves him warm and content and just a little off-balance.

A smile she only seems to give _him_ , and isn’t that crazy, to think that someone has a smile meant only for him.

She sits at his side, on an old blanket she brought from home and clad in a dark purple sundress, one covered in little golden stars and constellations — he’d teased her about it earlier, but even he has to admit it is cute — and his jacket draped over her, legs curled up underneath herself. Like this, she looks downright comfortable, and he thinks he could get used to the sight, to the feel of her next to him. Already has, if he’s being honest with himself.

“Mason?”

Her voice again, a bit of worry seeping into the tone, and he curses himself, for getting so lost in his own head; who is he, Nat? Ugh, no thank you.

“I’m here,” he says, fingers reaching for her as he toys with the end of the messy braid she has slung over a shoulder, fiery locks darkened in the gloom. “No place else I’d rather be, sweetheart.”

Cheeks, already rosy from the slight nip in the air, burn brighter now and he smirks. Hears her pulse ping, heart fluttering like a hummingbird, and really, _truly_ , it shouldn’t still be this much fun, leaving her a flustered mess, but oh, it is. Mason has always enjoyed the reactions he can pull from people, but there is something about _her_ reactions in particular that never fails to draw him in, time and again, like a moth to a flame.

She laughs, a melodic sound that he’s come to enjoy, and glances down, fidgeting with the small book in her lap; a tattered old journal, kept first by her dad and now by her, a record of all their astronomy notes over the years.

Cordelia had shown it to him this morning, while they were busy getting things ready for the little trip out here, and he didn’t really understand any of the stuff written within it, most of it calculations or coordinates, plus a lot of words that meant nothing to him, but he’d been happy to listen.

“Oh! Good, I’m glad! I was worried that you might be bored or,” she pauses, fingers toying with the little string peeking out of the journal, a place marker of sorts, “I don’t know, wanted to leave.”

“Nah, it’s quiet out here, no people to bother me,” he says and leans closer then, shoulders bumping together, lowering his voice as he adds, “besides, if I do get bored, there’s plenty of other things here to occupy me.” And oh, he can _feel_ the heat radiating off of her, that heartbeat a thundering cadence now.

She nudges him playfully and when she speaks, she has to fight to keep her voice calm. “You’re terrible, you know that, right?”

“Guilty as charged,” he teases and lets his lips brush along the shell of her ear, near the delicately pointed tip, and is rewarded with a full-body shiver, a small moan slipping out which she quickly covers by clamping a hand over her mouth. “But you knew that already, didn’t you, sweetheart?”

Her head lifts then and she looks up at him and _fuck_ , but there goes his heart again, flip-flopping all over the damn place. He feels hot, jittery, and it only gets worse when she says, softly and with far too much sincerity, “Yes, but it’s okay, I love you anyway.”

Inside of him, a piece of himself shifts; clicks back into place, and Mason is really fucking happy he doesn’t need to breathe, because if he did, he certainly wouldn’t be able to now. He’s spent nearly a hundred years avoiding this — always careful to never get too close, to let emotions or connections get in the way of having a good time, and damn it, but he’d been _good_ at it, too. Knew how to enjoy himself, without any of those pesky attachments to ruin things.

And then she came along. Burst into his life, like the sun through storm clouds, radiant and beautiful and he tried, fuck did he try, to ignore her, to deny the magnetic pull she had on him, but it’d been useless. Years of hard work gone, tossed out the nearest window and forgotten about.

Without even realizing it, she put down roots in his heart, buried them deep and now they’ve bloomed, flowering into something brilliant and delicate. She is a part of him, has made her home inside of him and he is powerless to stop it. And somehow, that thought doesn’t bother him nearly as much as he thinks it should.

Mercifully, Cordelia is quick to switch topics and she is talking again, gaze fixed on the sky above. “I’m just so thrilled! It’s been so long since I was able to watch this with someone,” she explains and her head falls, lands against his shoulder, and one of her hands moves, laying atop his knee. The touch is featherlight, but it still sends little ripples of electricity skittering along his skin, up through his fingers and down to his toes and something in his chest swells, tightens.

His arm hooks around her waist and he tugs her closer, lets her scent fill him — lavender, with a hint of citrus he knows is from the shampoo she favors — and hums, a low rumble in the back of his throat. Even out here, she is the only thing he can sense; she overshadows everything else.

“Who was the last person?” A part of him knows the answer, but he asks nonetheless.

“My dad,” she murmurs and it is so wistful that it almost hurts, a bittersweet tone. Mason knows that her view of her father has been tainted, in a way, by the secret he kept from her, about her own heritage. The idealized version of his memory that she’s carried for so long has become cracked along the edges and he wonders, privately, if she has forgiven him yet or not.

Almost asks, but then thinks better of it. Not his place, to pick at that wound, and besides, she will come to him, if she wishes to talk about it. And he will listen, as always.

“We only saw one together, when I was four,” she tells him, nails tracing little circles on his leg, absently, timing each with her words, “we snuck out of the house and went up to the roof. He put me in his lap and we watched as the moon began to darken. I remember,” she laughs, and shakes her head, and a glance down reveals a smile on her lips, a brittle little thing, “I got scared, I thought something was swallowing the moon.”

“What, like a dragon?”

Her gasp is light, but utterly delighted as she leans away to look at him. “You were listening to me prattle on about that?”

“I listen to everything you say, sweetheart,” he states and then, with a shrug, says, “even if half of what comes out of that pretty mouth of yours doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.”

She giggles and tilts toward him again, planting a kiss on his cheek, right over the cluster of freckles, and it has his skin tingling. “Thank you, for listening to me anyway, it means… well, it means more than I can say.”

No need to question what, or rather, _who_ , she means — yet another reason, it seems, for him to want to beat the shit out of that fucking reporter. Moves on, before his anger gets the better of him, and asks, “You watched all the others since then alone?”

“Yes, it always felt,” Cordelia trails off, and he feels, rather than hears, her sigh, “I’m not sure, personal to me? It was something we shared, I suppose I was reluctant to share it with anyone else.”

“Then why bring me?” He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth, wants to grab them and stuff them back down his throat, but it’s too late. They hang in the air around them and he waits, braces himself for the impact he knows is coming.

For what feels like an eternity, she is silent; only the gentle song of her heart and the steady rhythm of her breathing, and then she speaks, and her words are like a jolt of lightning striking him square in the chest.

“Because I love you, and I want to share this with you,” she says, a smile obvious in her words, and whispers, “it’s best, after all, when shared with someone special to you.”

And he ought to be used to it, really he should be, but the words slam into him like a tidal wave. Pull him under the surface and he is left dizzy, drowning, head spinning. He swallows, throat dry, words rising only to get stuck there, thick and razor-like. Opens his mouth, closes it, and just pulls her tighter to him, hand pressed into her hip.

Her own hand leaves his leg, slides across and finds his other, at his side. Twines their fingers together, two halves of a whole, and it feels like coming home. She understands all the emotions he still doesn’t know how to say out loud, and he wants to — wants to tell her everything he feels for her, every little sensation she brings to life inside of him — but he knows she will wait, as long as it takes.

She is patient, his Cordelia. Will never push him to be someone he isn’t, accepts him as he is; broken and rough around the edges.

“Ah! It’s started!”

Mason blinks and she is pointing skyward, so he follows the slope of her arm, right down to the finger directed toward the moon before it falls, returning to her side. Already, the change is apparent; a red hue, creeping along the shadowed surface, and yet for as impressive as it looks, he finds his own gaze sliding back to Cordelia, who commands his attention in the way no moon, eclipsed or otherwise, ever could.

The look on her face is one of absolute wonder, smile wide and eyes wider, cheeks stained that lovely shade of pink, the only she always gets when she’s so happy she can hardly contain herself. It hits him then, like a punch to the gut, how lucky he is, to be here and sharing this moment with her. 

How out of everyone she could have picked, against all odds, she chose him. Maybe he can’t tell her what that means to her. Maybe he can’t find the words to describe the way she makes him feel, just by being next to him. Maybe he can’t do any of those things, not yet, but he can _show_ her.

So, he does.

Untangles his hand from her own and reaches for her, fingers curling around her chin. Turns her head, tilts it back, and their eyes meet, gray on hazel, and before she can speak, he closes the gap between them. Kisses her, claims her lips with his own, and pours all of himself into it, into her; every unspoken word and raw, unnamed emotion. Gives all of them, all of himself, to her.

He can’t tell her the things that have made themselves at home in his heart, but he hopes that with this she might hear them — even if it’s only a whisper, that would be enough.

She melts into him, answers the questions he’s too afraid to ask, and in this moment, there is nothing left in the world but her.

When he breaks away, she is still smiling and the flush in her cheeks is darker, all but glowing in the dim light. He leans into her, forehead pressing against her own, and basks in the presence of her.

“What was that for?” Her voice is a whisper, reverent and tender, and he chuckles, eyes slipping closed.

“Nothing,” he says and his lips ghost along hers, a promise of more, if she will accept it, “only, I think I’m starting to see the appeal of these eclipse things.”

Her responding kiss is warmth itself, spreading through him like a wildfire, and he pulls her further into his arms, all thoughts of the sky above easily forgotten. Mason doesn’t need some far away moon he can’t even touch, not when he’s got the sun herself in his embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and/or comments are appreciated! I'm also on [tumblr](https://elmshore.tumblr.com/)!


	6. a house is a home (nat/ava/nb detective)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Day 6: Broken) Little Sparrow breaks a vase that Nat has owned for a very long time, Eden is there to help.

They’re in the kitchen, feet planted in a chair — one that came in the very expensive dining room set Nat bought and had absolutely forbade standing in — and hands rummaging through one of the cabinets they can still barely see into, cursing Ava under their breath for daring to hide the pack of cookies so high up, when they hear it.

A crash. No, scratch that, a loud crash.

It comes without warning, echoes in the air around them, and they practically jump right out of their skin, nearly slipping out of the damn chair in the process. Thankfully, they’re able to save themselves at the last minute, hands latching onto the cabinet itself and holding on for dear life. Once they’re certain they won’t be falling to their doom on their kitchen floor, they turn their head and try to peer out of the kitchen, in the direction of the noise.

Or, rather, the direction they think the noise came from.

When no other sound follows, Eden frowns and, carefully, begins their descent from the chair. Hops down, bare feet hitting the hard wood floor with a dull _thud_ and carrying them out of the kitchen, into the adjoining dining room. Sees nothing out of the ordinary, except the missing chair, and sighs, arms folding over their chest.

“This house better not be haunted, or I’m gonna lose it,” they murmur, figuring that if there is a ghost hanging out, they could probably hear them just fine. Stupid supernatural hearing and all that jazz.

Spinning on their heels, they head off, through the dining area and into the living room, where again, they find nothing. Keep going, down the little hallway past the staircase that leads to the laundry room and the guest bathroom; again, nada.

Well, okay, they do find something — or, their foot does, when they step right on top of a little plastic toy dinosaur. They curse, bite down on their lip to keep quiet, and swoop down, snatching the thing off the ground. It’s beady little eyes stare back up at them, mocking them and they glare right back, maybe with a little more venom than is necessary.

“Don’t look at me like that, you short-armed loser,” they hiss, and resisting the urge to simply throw it, stuff it into their pocket instead. Best to put it up, before it attacks another helpless foot.

First floor cleared and secured, they head upstairs — two steps at a time, of course — and upon reaching the landing, turn, making a beeline to the left and toward Sparrow’s room. Currently, it’s naptime; a practice Ava insists needs to be stopped, deeming six as being too old, but they, along with Nat, were adamant in weaning him off slowly, rather than just going cold turkey.

Hell, they’re a grown adult, and they _still_ take naps.

So, they’ve compromised; he still has naptime, but it’s shorter, and so far, it’s been working out well. 

At least, they think so.

His door easily stands out from the others in the hallway. Painted a soft blue, it’s adorned with puffy white clouds near the bottom and an array of small birds, done in a mix of brown and cream, in mid-flight. A little project they’d taken on, when it came time to make some changes to his room — namely, in removing the crib and putting in an actual bed — and they’d done most of the painting, but Sparrow had helped; the little blue handprints found near the bottom of the door are proof of his contribution.

Silly, perhaps, but they’d been keen on the idea and in the end, neither Nat or Ava were against it, no doubt understanding their reasons behind it. That it was their way of making sure Sparrow grows up in a place that feels like a _home_ , not just an empty set of walls. Eden will not have him feeling like a stranger in his own house, not like they used to when they were a kid.

And besides, he loves the door, has named each of the birds — one after his Uncle Felix and another, the one they _may_ have given a small frown, after Uncle Mason — says hi or bye to them on a daily basis.

Taking hold of the knob, they inch the door open slowly and tilt forward, peering inside, as immediately alarm bells go off in their head.

Sparrow isn’t in bed.

He’s not in the room, either. They tear through it, looking — in the closet, under the bed, even digging through the pile of stuffed animals he’s made in the corner — and nothing, not a single sign of their son to be found. And those alarms are sirens now, screaming on a loop, and they turn in a circle, gray eyes darting around the space wildly.

“Don’t panic,” they tell themselves, as they continue to panic. “He’s here, just not… _here_.” Somehow, surprisingly, the words don’t help the way they’d hoped and now they’re jittery, off-kilter, and they need to move, need to find him, before they lose their mind.

They’re out of the room and back into the hallway in two steps, tops. 

“Sparrow?!” They repeat the call with each door they open, only to find empty room after empty room. He’s not in the other guest bathroom (technically his bathroom, now), or in the little office Ava’s claimed as her own, or in the makeshift art room they use together, and even the ‘stuff everything in here until we know what to do with it’ room is a bust, filled only with boxes but no Sparrow.

On the verge of tears now, heart galloping in their chest and throat so tight they can hardly breathe, Eden is just about to call for him again when they hear it.

“Mom?”

Soft, little more than a whisper, but it’s almost deafening over the roar of blood in their ears and they turn, eyes landing on the little figure. He’s standing in the doorway of their bedroom and those big brown eyes — so warm, a mirror of Nat’s — are filled with tears, running down his cheeks. Lips trembling, his arm is tucked protectively into his chest and a streak of red catches their eye, so very out of place against his tawny skin.

Blood.

Eden is down the hallway and kneeling in front of him in a flash, hands reaching out to cup his face. Surging forward, they leave kisses on his forehead, over both cheeks, and even on his nose, relief spilling through them like a flood. He’s here, he’s _here_. 

In their chest, their heart finally begins to return to normal and they lean back, to get a better look at him. Eyes falling to his arm, they drop one of their hands to take hold of it and, gently, pry it away from him, to try and examine the possible damage. They find it easily enough — on his palm, a small gash, still bleeding and they make a sound in the back of their throat, looking back up at him.

“Ro, baby, what happened?”

A fresh set of tears pour down his face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” he babbles, free hand rubbing at his eyes harshly, “don’t be mad, I’m sorry it broke.” The words tumble out of him, faster and faster, and they try to brush away the tears still pouring out.

“Hey, hey, slow down little bird,” they coax and he nods, looking down. Using their shirt — an old tattered thing, meant for lounging around the house and little else — they wipe his face off, tears and all. His cheeks are still splotchy and his eyes red from the crying, but it’s a little better. “Now, what broke?”

Sparrow takes a small step away from them and turns halfway, arm pointing further into the room. They follow it and instantly, their answer is apparent. On the floor, in front of the small table placed up against one of the windows, lie the shattered remains of what _used_ to be Nat’s vase. According to her, she’d had the thing since the early 1800s, bought it at some high-scale auction for a hefty price. 

And now there it sits, broken.

Truth be told, Eden’s never given the vase much thought. Some porcelain thing meant to look like a flower, painted in pastels and gold, it’s just never been their speed, as far as decorations go, but Nat’s always seemed to love it and so, it got a place in their room. Just like Ava’s sword, hanging securely on the wall, or their guitar, hanging beside the window.

Little trinkets of their lives, brought together just as they were.

Except, now one of those things is on the floor, in a bunch of jagged pieces and they sigh. Right now, however, the vase is the least of their concerns; their top priority is dealing with the cut on his hand. So, they stand and take him with them, settling him against their hip as they head further into the room and toward the large master bathroom.

“Is Mama gonna be mad?”

They flick on the light and set him down on the counter, squatting then to open the cabinet under the sink and find the first aid kit stashed under there. “No,” they say, moving a pack of diapers out of the way — they _really_ need to clean this place out — and, finding the kit, grab it, returning to their feet. “But, what were you even doing in our room? It’s naptime, y’know.”

“Wasn’t sleepy,” he responds and when they gesture for him to hold out his arm, he does so, palm facing up. “I wanted to see Mama’s pretty jar, but I hit the table and then it fell and I couldn’t catch it,” he continues, as they begin pulling out the necessary items.

“So, how did you cut your hand?”

“Tried to pick it up, but it hurt so I stopped.”

They hum and carefully, begin to wipe the blood away from the wound; he yelps a bit at the alcohol, but thankfully doesn’t try to fight against them and it is easy enough to get a gauze on and wrap the wound. Once they’re done, they lean down and give it a loud, smacking kiss, which has him laughing and they smile. 

“All right, little bird, time to get down,” and he does so, awkwardly sliding off the counter. Almost loses his balance once he’s on his feet, bumping into them, but he remains upright and they return the kit to it’s rightful spot, then take his uninjured hand and together, they head back into the bedroom. “Stay here, okay? I’m gonna get that stuff up.”

He nods and, satisfied, they set to work. Grab a pillowcase out of the closet and begin collecting the pieces, careful not to cut themselves in the process. They’ll need to vacuum for the tiny, microscopic pieces likely hiding in the carpet, but they manage to get what they can see and done, they tie the case, tight as they can.

At least this way Nat can say goodbye, if that’s a thing she wants to do. 

“Okay, let’s head downstairs, I don’t want you in here until I can make sure there’s nothing else on the floor,” they say, pointing him toward the door, and he obeys, jogging over as fast as his short legs will allow. They follow close behind and, just to be safe, close the door behind them. 

They’re about halfway down the stairs when he stops and asks, in the most broken voice they’ve ever heard, “Is Mama gonna hate me?”

Eden turns to face him and oh, the look on his face makes their heart clench; they recognize it well, that fear of losing the love of a parent and it cuts them deep, because that’s not something they _ever_ want Sparrow to feel. He’s not going to go through life like they did, worrying over whether or not their own mother loves them, or even thinks about them.

Nope, that is absolutely not happening.

Setting the pillowcase onto the step beside their feet, they close the gap between them and kneel, which is a bit awkward on the stairs but they make it work. Using one hand, they cup his cheek, and give him the brightest smile they can conjure up. “Oh, little bird, of course not,” they say, trying to keep their voice light, “Mama could never hate you, ever.”

“Really?”

“Of course! You're her little songbird, she’ll always love you, no matter what happens!” And it’s true. Nat adores Sparrow, as they all do; he’s their world, the true heart of this little family they’ve created together, and nothing, they know, will ever change that.

This seems to placate him and he grins, giggling when they give his cheek a little raspberry. Getting an idea then, they pull back and reach into their pocket, pulling out the dinosaur. Upon seeing it, his face lights up.

“Sir Roar!”

“Yep, found him downstairs,” they respond and, once he’s taken the toy out of their hand, they stand. “Guess he must have escaped, huh?”

Sparrow nods, looking up at them with such a serious expression they almost lose it right there. “He’s always getting out! He’s got to defend our kingdom when Mother isn’t here!”

Probably not _quite_ what Ava had in mind, when she explained a little about how knights worked to defend a nation, but eh, it’s the thought that counts.

The sound of a door opening catches their attention and they don’t need to look to know who it is — Ava and Nat, returned from their business at the Warehouse. “Hey, why don’t you go have a seat on the couch, okay?” Eden figures it’s probably best if they recount the tale, and not him. 

A sentiment he apparently shares, because he simply nods and continues down the stairs, hopping off the bottom step and then racing toward the couch. They grab the makeshift bag and follow him down, pivoting right once they reach the end and toward the front door, already able to spot their wives in the entryway. 

Both are no doubt aware of their approaching presence, but it is Nat who acknowledges them first, a brilliant smile on her lips. “Hello, love,” she greets and after hanging her coat up on the rack, strides forward, long legs bringing her to Eden in less than four steps. Bends down and they raise up, meet her halfway, and the kiss is sweet, one that leaves their heart fluttering, and when it ends, her eyes are shining. “Did you have a good day?”

“Yeah, it was good,” they respond, absently messing with the knot they made in the pillowcase, and clear their throat. “Uh, how did the meeting go?”

“As well as to be expected, given who the other participants were,” Ava says, irritation clear in her tone, and Eden does their best to fight back another laugh; apparently, Unit Alpha was needed to help with something, and that meant the two teams had to work together. And from the little vein throbbing in her forehead, it’s clear that their wife is having a _blast_.

Once her own coat is taken care of, Ava makes her way over and in a mirror of Nat, leans down for her own welcome home kiss. It is a bit more firmer and sets their pulse to racing, something she _definitely_ notices, by the way her lips quirk as she pulls away. Then, her eyes are darting down and she frowns, brow raising. 

“What is in the bag?”

Oh, right, _that_.

They clear their throat again — why, they have no idea, it doesn’t actually help anything — and take a deep breath. “Okay, listen, before I tell you, I just need to make sure you guys know that Sparrow is very, _very_ sorry for what happened, okay?” A pair of confused faces are their only response and they sigh, lifting the pillowcase a bit higher, wincing at the sound of the pieces inside shifting against one another.

“Remember that vase of yours, Nat? The super old one?”

“Is that — ”

“Yep! Or, what’s left of it, anyway.”

A small sound leaves the taller woman and she reaches for the case, which they pass to her gingerly. She studies the item, and it’s hard for Eden to figure out what she’s feeling; she looks more dazed than sad, which _might_ be a good thing?

Beside her, Ava lets out a breath and lifts a hand, pinching the bridge of her nose. “He broke it?”

“No intentionally,” they say quickly, rubbing their arm, a bit sore from carrying that thing for so long. “He only wanted to look at it, but he said he bumped into the table and it, well, fell.”

“Where is he?” Nat asks, voice quiet, and they jerk a thumb behind them, toward the living room. She nods and starts off, gliding past Eden, who turns to watch her leave before they follow, Ava hot on their heels.

Sparrow is, thankfully, still on the couch; he’s playing with Sir Roar, making the dinosaur walk back and forth along the cushion, imitating what he imagines to be dinosaur noises. When he sees the three of them, however, he drops the toy and sits up straighter, the worry clear on his features.

Rounding the corner first, Nat goes to speak only for her eyes to go wide, no doubt finally spying the bandage on his hand, and immediately, she places the pillowcase on the coffee table, no longer a concern. Kneels in front of him and takes his hand, fingers curling around it comfortingly. “Oh, sweetie, what happened? Does it still hurt?”

“He cut it,” Eden volunteers, now leaning over the back of the couch and as Ava takes up position beside them, they reach out, ruffling his golden curls. “He tried to pick it up before I got there and one of them gave him a little cut, but I took care of it.”

The boy looks ready to cry again, tears welling in his eyes and when he speaks, his shoulders are shaking. “I’m sorry, Mama, please don’t hate me! I didn’t mean to!”

Nat gasps, her eyes somehow going even _wider_ , and then she’s leaning forward, enveloping him in a tight hug. His arms go around her neck and she holds him, hands rubbing his back. “Oh, little songbird, I could never hate you,” she coos, rocking side to side, in an effort to comfort him. “You matter far more than any vase ever could, I’m only grateful you are not hurt!”

At their side, Ava leans over and her hand joins Nat’s at his back. “None of us could ever hate you, Sparrow,” she confirms, voice resolute and when he looks back toward her, tears streaking his cheeks, she adds, “but you should know better than to enter our room without permission. You could have been seriously injured, and none of us want that.”

They nudge Ava, who glances toward them. “Great bedside manner there, hon.”

“He needs to know that what he did was wrong,” she counters and pulls back, hands gripping the back of the couch. “I am happy that he is otherwise fine, but that does not diminish the fact he broke a rule.”

“And I am sure he understands that,” Nat interjects, ever the peacekeeper, and returns her attention to Sparrow, beginning to wipe off his face, smile so infectious that soon, he is grinning back at her. “Besides, now he can help me pick out an entirely new vase.”

His face lights up and it’s a little weird, how excited he is over the prospect. “Really?!”

“Yes! We shall go tomorrow,” she pauses and then glances up, eyes twinkling as she takes in the sight of her partners, “in fact, we can all go! It will be a family event!”

Eden smiles as Sparrow gives a little cheer, obviously happy with the idea of spending a day out with his family, and it is then, watching this adorable little moment, that they remember something. Gasp and turn, hand wrapping around Ava’s bicep.

“You!”

“What have I done now?”

Instead of answering right away, they turn on their heel and begin to march back to the kitchen, tugging Ava behind them. “You,” they start, looking over their shoulder, “are going to get those stupid cookies down that you hid from me!”

“I did not hide them from you, Eden, I merely put them up.”

“Well, you put them up too high! Not all of us are giants, you know!”

“Sparrow,” Ava calls, all while allowing herself to be dragged along, “take note, son. This is not how a responsible adult behaves.”

His responding laughter _almost_ makes up for the insult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and/or comments are appreciated! I'm also on [tumblr](https://elmshore.tumblr.com/)!


	7. under the weather (mason/nb detective)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Day 7: Sleep) Cordelia is sick, so Mason opts to stay with her; while there, he meets his match.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soft!Mason, but add in a cat!

When he initially imagined spending a night alone with Cordelia in her apartment, this isn’t _exactly_ what he had in mind.

It feels… weird, to be sitting here. On her too bright couch, in her living room filled with various plants and photographs and assorted knick-knacks, all of them special to her in some way, little snapshots of her life put on display. Her scent is everywhere — lavender and tea, a splash of citrus, sweet and bright like candy — and no matter where he turns, she is there.

Constant reminders that this space is not meant for him. Like he’s some intruder, foreign and at odds in such a lively space. Except, that isn’t true, is it?

 _My home is your home_ , she’d told him only hours earlier, in-between yet another coughing spell, and even now, the words sit in his chest. Awkward and far too warm, they linger there, putting down roots. And he wants to ignore them, to brush them aside as nothing more than the ramblings of a sick woman, but he knows that would be a lie; she meant them, wholeheartedly, and he’s just going to have to live with that, isn’t he? 

With the knowledge that she actually _wants_ him here.

A fact that is only further hammered in by the thick, dark curtains now hanging from damn near every window in the apartment; only the small window in the kitchen remains uncovered, a favored spot of Galileo’s. 

He’s still not sure how to feel about them, to be honest — or, rather, isn’t sure how to deal with the fact she put them there for _him_ , for his own comfort.

No one’s ever really done anything like that for him before, at least not without some ulterior motive, and he knows damn well that’s not the case here; she never even _mentioned_ the curtains, just put them up and let it go. She did for him, no reward or praise necessary. Just like the switched out all the bulbs in her apartment for a softer white, or how she removed them entirely in her bedroom; hung up fairy lights — he scoffs at the name — instead.

She keeps doing that, too. Adjusting or adapting to his presence in her life, making changes without being asked to, all so _he_ can feel more… what, exactly? At home? At ease? Mason’s not sure, but knowing her, it’s probably both.

Wonders if she knows that all it takes is her, that he’ll be fine anywhere, so long as she’s there with him.

That feeling is back now. Spreads through his veins like a wildfire, setting each and every nerve ablaze, and Mason snarls, a vicious sound that tears out of his throat like some howling beast. Drags a hand through his hair and slouches down deeper into the soft cushions, enveloped in a sea of lilac wool.

He hates to admit it, but for as colorful as this damn thing is, it is comfortable at least.

Lifts his legs and props his feet up on her coffee table — his shoes are by the door, one of the few rules for her apartment — and he figures it’s fine; she’s never mentioned it being a problem before, and besides, she’s not out here to tell him any different. Throws his head back, closes his eyes, and just listens.

He should hear _everything_ ; the minimal traffic on the street below, that one older woman a floor down with the dog who always snarls at him, or hell, even that guy four doors down who likes to sing sea shanties at odd hours, but he doesn’t. Or, no, he _does_ , but it’s all just white noise; static crackling just on the edge, drowned out by Cordelia.

She is the only thing he hears, the only thing he senses; her presence is like a blanket, covering him, and it would be annoying, if it wasn’t so damn soothing.

Only, tonight, something is wrong. Everything about her feels _off_ , which makes sense — she is sick, after all — but, even knowing the reason, it does nothing to help the tension pricking away at him. Sets him on edge, jittery and off-kilter.

Currently, she’s bundled up in bed, nestled in with two blankets and about four pillows, but he can make out her every sound, just as clearly as if she were right next to him on the damn couch. Her breathing, shallow and raspy, broken every so often by a harsh cough; the erratic cadence of her heart, elevated by the illness; and, every so often, another sound, halfway between a groan and a sigh, as her body aches from the fever.

And he hates it. Loathes every damn minute of it. This isn’t something he can get rid of for her, he can’t fight off fucking a cold. How did she even get sick anyway? Shouldn’t her fae blood _prevent_ shit like this from happening?

 _Dominant as her fae blood is now, due largely to the ritual Rory initiated, her human_ **_is_ ** _still present,_ Elidor told them this afternoon, as she sat huddled up against him, _and even mutated as that blood is, it still leaves her susceptible to some common illnesses_. A lot of fancy terms got thrown around, none of which meant a goddamn thing to Mason, but the doctor assured them both that it’s just a simple cold and that with a bit of rest, she’d be back on her feet in no time.

Originally, Elidor planned for her to stay at the Warehouse, but she refused; wanted to be home, she said, where she could be in her own bed, and so here they are. And sure, yeah, Mason doesn’t _need_ to be here too — she’s a grown woman, she can take care of herself — but, still he stays.

Stays because when he tried leaving earlier, after _finally_ getting her into bed, he managed to make it halfway down the stairs only to turn his ass right around and stalk back into her apartment, planting himself on the sofa.

 _I’ll leave in a bit_ , he tells himself, even as he knows it’s a fucking lie.

A trilling _mrrp_ cuts through the air and his eyes slide open, glancing down only to find the source of it staring right back at him. Two bright amber eyes watch him, curious and wide, and he sighs. Pushes himself up, hunches forward, and frowns. 

“I already fed you,” he says, as if the cat understands actual words.

And he _had_ fed him, right after he got Cordelia in bed and before he — stupidly — tried leaving. Filled his bowl with that awful smelling food she usually gives him and hell, he even checked the weird little water fountain thing, just to make sure everything still worked. He’s seen her do it all plenty of times, easy enough to replicate it.

Galileo cocks his head to the side, as if studying him, and Mason swears he sees _something_ intelligent flare to life in that golden gaze, but shoves it aside; he’s a cat, for fuck’s sake. The feline gives another meow, louder and more insistent this time, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees that fluffy tail twitch. It swipes side to side, landing with each flick on the table with a light _thump_ , and he’s no expert on cat body language, but he’s pretty sure that’s not a good sign.

Is he going to attack? Fuck, but he hopes not; Mason _really_ doesn’t want to explain to Cordelia that he threw her cat out of a window for trying to claw his eyes out.

Thankfully, his worries are unfounded. Instead, the cat merely turns its head and peers down the short hallway leading toward her room and just like that, it clicks. Rolling his eyes, he falls back against the couch and sighs. “She’s sick,” he starts and, because talking to cats is apparently where he’s at in his life now, adds, “and no, I’m not letting you in. She needs sleep, not some fuzzball walking all over her.”

A third meow and he’ll be damned if this one doesn’t sound offended.

“Go play with a toy or something,” he growls and when Galileo remains in place, he glares. _This is so fucking stupid_ , a voice in his head hisses and for once, he’s inclined to agree with it. “Look, you’ve got food and I know you’ve got plenty of shit to entertain you, what the fuck do you want from me?”

The answer is not _quite_ what he’d expected. Galileo moves, steps onto his outstretched legs and, with more grace than a cat his size should have, begins to climb right up them, heading straight for Mason’s lap.

He grunts and then quickly reaches out. Tucks his hands under the cat’s fat body and shakes his head. “Don’t even try it,” he states, doing his best to mimic the tone he’s heard Cordelia use when disciplining the animal, “you’ve got a bed, go sleep in that.” Mason drops the cat to the floor, where he lands effortlessly on his feet. Shakes his head, ears flopping, and turns to look back up at Mason, blinking slowly.

When he doesn’t move, Mason assumes that’s the end of that. Naturally, he’s fucking wrong.

A slight wiggle of that furry behind is the only warning he’s given before the cat leaps and lands smack in the middle of his lap. He snarls and anyone else would be terrified, but this damn cat has the _audacity_ to start pawning at him. “I said no,” he hisses, grabs the cat again, and deposits him back onto the floor. 

“There’s only one person in this place allowed to sit in my lap,” he mutters, picking at the hairs now clinging to his pants, “and it sure as hell isn’t you, furry.”

He has two, _maybe_ three seconds tops, before Galileo is back. And, again, he’s no expert on cats or how to read them, but he knows a smug expression when he sees one, feline or otherwise.

Mason moves him, again. The cat returns, again. Round and round they go, like some fucked up carousel, and by the tenth rotation, he knows he’s met his match. Stares at the cat sitting serenely in his lap and gives him the darkest glare he can muster up.

“Fine, you goddamn furball,” he sighs and gives in, waves the proverbial white flag of defeat, and lets the cat make his little nest. _Bested by a fucking cat_ , he groans and is, suddenly, grateful that Felix isn’t here; one look at this and he’d never let him live it down. Mason leans back, and oh, that’s a mistake; now Galileo is moving again, walking right up onto his chest and plops down. 

Curls up, head snug under Mason’s chin, and just to rub salt into the gaping wound, he has the gall to start purring.

The tiny vibrations rumble through him and _ugh_ , but it’s kind of nice, relaxing in a way that almost pisses him off. “So glad _you’re_ happy,” he grumbles, the cat only curling into a tighter ball, and goddamnit, but he’s going to be picking orange hair out of his clothes for weeks.

He slides a hand up and under Galileo, to keep him from slipping down — and to keep those fucking razor blades from digging into his flesh every time the cat shifts — and with his other, pulls out his phone. Might as well find _something_ to keep himself occupied, since he’s clearly not going anywhere now.

Fourteen unread messages greet him as the screen comes to life and he scowls; all but _two_ of them are from Felix. Most of them are the same thing, only repeated; he’s worried about Cordelia, wants to know if she’s any better, complaining about how boring it is without Cordelia around, and blah blah. He deletes most of them, but sends a quick ‘ _she’s fine but sleeping. don’t fucking text her_ ’ message, if only to satisfy him.

Surprisingly, one of the messages is from Ava, but _unsurprisingly_ it’s only to remind him of the meeting in the morning. He opts to ignore it, which he figures she’s expecting him to do anyway, and simply moves on to the last text, this one from Cordelia herself. It’s the last thing she sent him this morning — after their normal good morning messages — before she stumbled into the Warehouse, running a fever but claiming the entire time to just be ‘ _a bit under the weather_.’

One look at it, and he’s pretty sure she sent it to him by mistake. She probably meant for it to go to one of her nerdy friends instead — most likely Phoebe — or, for whatever reason, she really did think he’d be interested in a four hour video essay (and a part of him _hates_ that he even knows what those are now) about something called _The Witcher_.

Whatever the fuck that is.

Not that it stops him from opening the damn thing, of course, or from hitting play, quickly scrolling the volume down as low as he can get it. After all, what else does he have to do?

Forty minutes, and he’s still not entirely sure what a Witcher really is. Or, well, no; he knows it’s a person who hunts monsters, for a price — a smart decision, he’ll admit — but he’s no closer to understanding why they apparently made _three_ fucking games about them. Books too, but those, he assumes, came first? Isn’t that usually how it works?

Ah, fuck if he knows.

“Mason?”

He goes still at the sound of his name, soft and barely there, a whisper in the air. Pauses the video and waits, to see if it comes again or if it’s simply his mind playing tricks on him, desperate for anything else to focus on. 

But no, it comes again; just as quiet as before, but definitely there. 

Slowly, he begins to extract himself from his spot. Puts the phone down first, tossing it to his side, and then it’s time for the cat. Barely touching him and the cat gives a pathetic whine, head whipping around to look at his hand. “Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles and extracts the animal from his chest, placing him on the cushion next to his leg, “be happy I let you use me as a pillow for so long.”

Galileo yawns, stretches out, and goes right back to sleep, apparently content with his new location. 

“Oh sure, _now_ you stay.”

A short _mrrp_ is his only response and he decides not to say anything in return; that’s enough talking to the cat for one night, he tells himself.

Mason stands, legs a little numb, and takes a moment to stretch, arms lifting over his head. Hears his back pop in at least three different areas and goes slack, cracking his neck. Turns, absently giving Galileo a scritch behind the ear, and then he’s moving, past the couch and around the coffee table. During his short trek, he attempts to wipe some of the hair from his shirt and sighs; no point, he’ll have to steal one of her lint rollers before he leaves, otherwise it’ll be all over his other clothes once he gets back to the Warehouse.

Briefly, he considers throwing it in with Felix’s clothes, but thinks better of it; not a good idea, the last laundry war between them resulted in an hour long lecture from both Ava _and_ Nat.

Reaching her door, he opens it slowly and steps inside, closing it behind him as quietly as he can manage. The room is nearly pitch black, save for the faint greenish-white light of the little plastic stars and planets she keeps plastered to her ceiling, but he needs no light — can, after all, see her perfectly from where he’s standing.

Cordelia is burrowed down into the linen, cocooned in a mass of blankets with only her face visible and somehow, it’s both pathetic and adorable. Those hazel eyes, still bright even in the gloom, are on him; half-lidded and drooping, clearly fighting against the urge to close entirely. She manages, with a bit of work, to free an arm from the pile and stretches it out, fingers making a little grabby motion toward him.

He gets the hint loud and clear. Saunters over with a chuckle and once he’s close enough, takes her hand in his own, fingers intertwining with hers. Gives it a little squeeze and she tips her head back to look up at him, strands of red hair hanging in her face.

“Need something, sweetheart?”

“I’m cold,” she whimpers and he frowns, the statement catching him off guard. Using his free hand, he does his best to imitate what he saw Agent Watson do this morning; presses the back of it to her forehead and then to her cheek. 

She’s burning up, still deep in the throes of a fever, how the hell is she cold?

“You’re under two thick blankets, cold is the last thing you should be,” he counters and then lowers himself onto his haunches, to be eye-level with her. “What are you even doing awake? You’re supposed to be asleep, sweetheart, doctor’s orders. You want Elidor knowing you’re not following them?”

She stares at him and he can see the effort it’s taking just to remain awake, her eyelids fluttering between open and closed. Her cheeks are stained red from the fever, a stark color against her fair skin, one that flows down her neck and likely lower still, and her breathing is still scratchy, hitching every few seconds. Mason lets his hand linger, brushes a few strands of hair away from her face and tucks it behind her ear.

He can not only see, but _feel_ her shivering. Is she really that cold?

“Mason,” she whines, voice tiny and cracking, and it makes his heart clench to hear it. “Please, I’m cold.”

And _fuck_ , he knows he has to do something, but what, exactly?

The obvious answer is, of course, to add a third blanket to her pile. His gaze slants toward the closet, where he knows she’s got plenty of them stashed, but he hesitates; would that really help? She’s currently buried under two heavy quilts, and if she’s cold even with them, what good would another one do? 

Probably fuck all, if he’s being honest.

Another idea strikes him then, quick as lightning, and he smirks, giving himself a mental pat on the back for being a goddamn genius. “All right, sweetheart, I’ll help,” he murmurs and steps away from the bed, her hand slipping out of his own. Ignoring her quiet huff of protest, he rounds the bed to the other side and sets to work untangling her from the mess of blankets. Easier said than done — she’s like a burrito, all coiled up inside of them — but, he manages it.

Lifts them up and carefully climbs in behind her. The bed shifts under his newly added weight and she dips back toward him, gasping as a rush of cool air hits her bare legs; she’s dressed in one his shirts and a pair of pink pajama shorts, covered in little gold moons. He _almost_ teases her about the shirt, but decides against it; cute as her voice is all squeaky, he’d rather not have her lose it.

Not to a damn cold, anyway.

Once he’s settled, he drops the covers over them both and reaches for her. Curls his arms around her and tugs her closer, back flush against his chest. Immediately, she melts into his embrace and he hears her sigh, a contented sound that has his heart fluttering. 

Under the blankets, she covers his hands with her own and he laces their fingers together, holds on tight. Buries his face along the crook of her neck, relishes the feel of her in his arms, and hums; all at once, he relaxes, body languid and light. And it’s actually a little terrifying, this power she has over him; how by simply being here, next to him, everything just seems _better_.

“Warm enough now, Starlight?” His voice is muffled against the curtain of fiery waves, but he feels her nod and his grin widens, pleased to see his idea is a success.

Cordelia tries to speak, but all that comes out is a sudden yawn and he chuckles. Nuzzles past the hair, gives her neck a soft kiss, and simply says, “Go to sleep, sweetheart.”

She murmurs something incomprehensible, so garbled not even _his_ hearing can make it out, and then she is out, asleep in his arms. Her breathing is steadier now and even her shivering has subsided; all that is left is the smooth rise and fall of her chest. Here, in the quiet, he focuses on the rhythm of her heartbeat, and it’s like a lull, a siren call, urging him to join her.

And who is he, to resist such a request?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and/or comments are appreciated! I'm also on [tumblr](https://elmshore.tumblr.com/)!


	8. you are safe (ava/female detective)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Day 8: Villain) Murphy's hold on Victoria's psyche still lingers, but this time, she's not alone to deal with the fear.

_The dream is always the same._

_Each time, without fail, and it should be a comfort, the repetition of it. Instead, the routine is a torment, and one she must suffer alone._

_She is back in that room. Lying on that small, hard table, bound and in pain. Thick straps of leather wind around her wrists and ankles, trapping her; immobile, defenseless. The air is always cold, a persistent chill that prickles over her skin and she shivers. From the cold, yes, but from fear, too._

_Inside of her, something is changed. It creeps along her veins, foreign and invading and not right. Unnatural. She wants to scream, opens her mouth but no sound will come. She wants to rip it out of her, to wrench it free from her skin, but her hands are bound and ineffective._

_She burns from within, blood boiling and searing, and she can do nothing to stop it._

_Weak. Always weak._

_Here, in the gloom, her eyes are useless and every shadow becomes a threat. They writhe and dance around her, their inky black fingers outstretched toward her; reaching and pulling and she feels them touching her. Feels them cutting through her flesh like knives and she bleeds. Over and over, she bleeds. It pours out of her, black and viscous and it is not human, not her own._

_And he laughs._

_The sound is all around her, echoing and booming, ringing in her ears. A high-pitched siren in her mind. He sings her name like a mantra, voice like nails on a chalkboard._

_“Victoria~ Victoria~ Victoria~”_

_She closes her eyes, squeezes them shut, but it is no use. It will not stop him. He is inside of her, a part of her, buried deep and deeper still and there is no removing him. A tumor eating away at her and she can close her eyes, can try to block him out, but none of it ever matters. None it ever works._

_He will always be with her._

_Her eyes open and she is in her room. The one from her childhood, filled with the hopes and dreams of a foolish little girl, one who still believed the world could be anything she wanted it to be._

_She can see now, the room awash in silver beams of moonlight, but oh. Oh, how she wishes she were blind._

_He is here now. Stands at the foot of her bed, wild eyes fixed on her own and those lips, cracked and blackened, spread into that same deranged smile. Blood oozes from the sides of his mouth, and she knows it is hers. When he smiles wider, his teeth are stained red with it and he reaches for her._

_“Victoria~”_

_And this time, when she screams, the sound of it shatters the room around her._

“Victoria!”

She is still screaming. Can hear herself, though it is distant, almost like an echo in a tunnel; recognizes it as her own voice, but only vaguely. As if she were outside of herself, merely listening in.

An arm, heavy as stone, wraps around her waist and her body reacts instinctively. Switches into flight mode and flings itself forward, legs kicking as she tries — and fails — to flee. She needs to get out of bed, needs to get away, but all she succeeds in doing is tangling herself further into the sheets. The arm is like a vice, holding fast and true, and she claws at it, dull nails tearing at the flesh, but this too proves futile.

“Victoria! _Meum cor_ , it’s me! You are safe!” The voice cuts through the haze of terror, like a ray breaking past a dark cloud, and yes, she knows this voice. She goes still, heart pounding in her chest like a caged animal, and her breath is shallow, heavy as she gulps in mouthfuls of air.

Closes her eyes. She knows this voice, trusts that it speaks the truth; that she is safe, protected.

“Ava?”

Behind her, Ava lets out a quiet breath and loosens her hold. Shifts then, sheets rustling at her movements, and raises up, on her elbow. Reaches over, tucking a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear, and Victoria lets out a heavy breath. Counts to five silently, a comforting habit, and then rolls over.

Icy green eyes stare back at her, filled with concern, and Victoria tries to smile, but the expression is shaky. Feels wrong, though she cannot say how.

“I’m sorry,” Victoria whispers, hoarse from the screaming, and swallows, throat dry. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Frowning, Ava leans forward and traces the back of her hand along the curve of Victoria’s cheek, the touch almost too gentle, as if afraid she might break her. “There is no need to apologize,” Ava murmurs and then, after a pause, “was it the same as the rest?”

“Yes.”

There is no need to elaborate, she has recounted the tale once and has no desire to do so again. Best, she thinks, to leave it unspoken, a product of her mind, where it cannot taint her life anymore than he already has. And of course, Ava understands. She does not pry, only nods, and it means more than any niceties or words of comfort ever could, more than Victoria can put into words.

Ava bends down, instead, and presses a soft kiss on her forehead. “Do you need anything? Is there anything I can do to help?”

It is well hidden, but Victoria can see the flicker of guilt in those emerald eyes; knows that even now, after all this time, Ava still blames herself for what happened that night. Holds herself accountable for the actions of a madman and it breaks her heart, to see the woman she loves carry that weight; Victoria would take it from her, if she could.

“Could you hold me?” Even as the words leave her lips, she feels foolish for asking. A childish request, one that should shame her, but it is all she craves. Right now, with the horror still creeping along the edge of her mind, it is what she _needs_ ; to feel Ava's arms around her, strong and secure, and to know that she is not alone.

Ava looks almost surprised by the request, eyes widening only a fraction, but then the expression is gone. Smooths into a small smile and that gaze is warm now, alight with affection, and it has Victoria's heart fluttering for an entirely different reason.

The blonde chuckles, a rumbling sound that carries from deep in her chest, and nods. Lies back down, and says, “Of course, _mea vita_.”

Once more those arms encircle her and she turns onto her side, pressing closer. Tucks herself into the embrace, nestles her face in the crook of Ava’s neck and reaches for her, hands pressed against her abdomen, fingers bunching into the thin shirt. Victoria listens to Ava's steady breathing, to the easy rhythm of her heart, and closes her eyes. 

The scent of mint and roses, faint but distinctly there, fills her senses until it is all she knows, all she needs.

Hands trace soothing half-circles at her back, featherlight and warm, and she relaxes. She is safe here, safe with _her_.

“He will not hurt you again,” Ava says, and there is so much conviction in her voice that Victoria would be a fool to doubt her. “I will not allow it, not while I still draw breath.” Something that she thinks might be relief spreads through her; seeps into her veins and makes itself at home. Because she knows that when Ava makes a vow, it is unbreakable; a pledge to last lifetimes.

“I know, _jagiya_ ,” and this time, when she smiles, it feels right. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and/or comments are appreciated! I'm also on [tumblr](https://elmshore.tumblr.com/)!


	9. cut me deeper (mason/nb detective)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Day 9: Fight) A mission goes poorly, and Mason has a few opinions on Cordelia's self-sacrificing attitude.

Something is wrong, but she cannot quite put her finger on what that _something_ might be, and it is driving her mad.

Mason, she knows, is a quiet man. He prefers to speak only when necessary, and more often than not, he prefers actions over words. It is one of the things she loves about him — that he never hides behind honeyed words or pretty lies; what you see is what you get. He can be abrasive, even crude, but he is always honest with her and she treasures that.

Only, this silence is different. Heavy and charged and almost suffocating, weighing down on her. Leaves her off-balance, nerves skittering and itchy. She can practically _feel_ the tension radiating from him, shoulders tight and drawn in close, a barrier between himself and the rest of the world. 

He has said nothing since they left the Warehouse, nary a word since Elidor released her from the medical wing, and it scratches at her. Like a thought, hovering just on the outskirts of her mind, close and yet so far out of reach. Is he still angry about the attack? The mission _had_ gone poorly, near the end — a shift that resulted in her leg being broken, though it had healed now to a sprain thanks to her own healing abilities and the help of Elidor, and of course, the loss of yet _another_ company car.

Poor thing, she wonders if they have managed to extract it from the river yet.

Is that what is bothering him? Cordelia likes to think that, if it is, he would simply say so. He’s never been shy in the past about such things, and he knows he can always come to her, when he needs to vent or rant, when all he needs is someone to listen, and to understand.

And she has tried to talk to him, to get _him_ to talk, but every attempt ends with the same response: silence. Outside of helping her out of the Warehouse and into another company car — her own poor Archimedes still sits at the rendezvous point, though Ava promised she would return it by the morning — he has hardly acknowledged her, let alone _looked_ at her.

Even as they arrive at her apartment complex, he says nothing; only gets out of the car, slamming the door behind him, and rounds the vehicle, opening her door. He helps her out slowly, wraps an arm around her waist and lets her lean into him, to keep pressure off her sore leg. Another door slammed and then they are off — up the stone steps and on to the stairs. It is awkward and slow, her motions limited like this, but he helps her.

He is silent as the grave the whole time, but he helps her.

After what is possibly the longest five minutes of her life, they reach her door and she digs into her bag, fingers rummaging through the clutter until, finally, she finds her keys. Yanks them out and tries to give him a smile, but his gaze is fixed on the door.

So, with a soft sigh and a heavy heart, she unlocks the door. Pushes it open and her apartment is dark as they enter, but he remedies this quickly enough. Reaches across her and finds the light switch with ease, flicking it on as the space is suddenly awash in a soft, white glow. On the couch ahead, Galileo peeks his head up and meows, the sound enough to make her smile return.

“Hi, Leo,” she greets, and is rewarded with a light, trilling sound — his own version of a hello.

Mason leads her further in, closes the door behind them with his foot, and makes straight for the sofa. “Move,” he grunts, and it is the first word she has heard come from his mouth in possibly an hour, so of course, it is directed toward her cat, not her.

Shockingly, Galileo _does_ move. Stretches and then lazily hops down, sauntering his way toward the kitchen, fluffy tail held high. Next thing she knows, Mason is easing her onto the couch and she lands on the cushions with a soft _oof_ , a dull ache working its way up her leg. He takes her bag, drops it onto the coffee table unceremoniously, and kneels in front of her, head bowed. It is an unexpected sight, but before she can ask why, he beats her to it.

The first shoe is pulled off and hits the carpet with a light _thud_. She shivers, his fingers lingering near her ankle, warm and featherlight against her skin. Mason pauses, and she holds her breath; is this it? Surely, he must have a teasing comment ready to go, the kind that always leaves her a blushing mess, flustered and at a loss for words.

But, the moment passes, and he sets to work removing the other shoe. His actions are slower this time, careful, and though it still hurts a little, she appreciates the gesture all the same. It joins the other on the floor and his task now complete, he leans back.

Is he going to leave? Panic surges through her at the thought. No, not yet, not while… whatever this is still lingers over them.

She reaches for him, quick as she can, and lays her hand against his cheek. Traces her fingers over the cluster of freckles painted there, and leans forward. “Mason, please,” she says it softly, no more than a whisper, and tries to fight against the lump rising in her throat. “What’s wrong? Please, just talk to me.”

For a moment, there is no reaction. He is like a statue, quiet and unmoving, and she is ready to plead again, the words on the tip of her tongue when he stirs. Fingers curl around her wrist, thumb resting over her pulse, and when he squeezes — firm and insistent but never painful — she smiles. 

Then he speaks, and any joy she might have felt dissolves to ash.

“You wanna know what’s wrong, _sweetheart_?” His tone is dark, a low rumble, and the venom that drips off the pet name she has grown so accustomed to is like a slap to the face. “It’s you,” he growls and her hand falls from his grasp as he hunches forward, gripping the cushions so tight she worries they might rip. He is inches from her now, gray eyes dark, reminding her of an approaching storm, and his next words take the air from her lungs. “You, and that fucking martyr complex of yours.”

Her heart sinks in her chest like an anchor and in its place, dread creeps in. Slow moving and cold as ice, chills her to the bone. She feels heavy, weighed down by lead in her veins, and when she tries to swallow, that lump in her throat is now a rock, refusing to budge.

“I — what are you talking about?”

Mason pushes away from her, rocks back onto his heels and stands in a fluid motion. Tears his eyes off her, as if looking at her is just too much right now, and rakes a hand through his dark hair. “I’m talking about how every goddamn time we bring you on a mission, I have to stand there and watch you run straight into fucking danger!”

His tone rises, bounces off the walls and slams into her like a wrecking ball. She recoils at first, but any fear she might have felt evaporates, and anger is there to take its place, sparking to life inside of her like fresh kindling. Foolishly, regrettably, she feeds it; breathes air into it and fans the flames. It is reckless, she knows, to meet fury with yet more fury, but the reaction is beyond her control — she is tired and sore and went through hell tonight, this is the _last_ thing she needs right now.

“I’m a part of the team, Mason,” she snaps and when his only response is a shake of his head, muttering a curse under his breath, her hands curl into fists. “What do you expect me to do? Stand back and just watch? I might as well not even be there, if that’s the case!”

“You could learn your fucking limits, for a start!”

“And what limits are those, hm?” He has no answer, only turns further away from her, and she unfurls one fist, slapping her palm into the arm of the couch. “I’m not a porcelain doll, Mason! I can take care of myself, I’m not some fragile, breakable thing!”

Of course, the powers and advantages that now come from her unsealed fae blood _are_ still new to her. Even now, she is learning spells from Aoife — under the supervision of Lady Ambroise, as per Agency orders — and yes, she is still adjusting to the magic suddenly flowing through her, but she is doing better.

Slowly, she is beginning to transition from a burden to an asset.

Mason, however, seems to disagree. He spins back around to face her, lips twisted into a scowl, and gestures toward her leg. “Really? ‘Cause from where I’m standing, it sure looks like you’re pretty damn breakable.”

Anger, and perhaps a bit of embarrassment, crests in her like a wave, and she looks down, eyes fixed on her lap. Heat stains her cheeks, sets them ablaze, and spills down her neck, consuming her like a wildfire. In her chest, her heart thunders against her ribs like a caged animal and she knows he can hear it, that he can read her like an open book.

There is no hiding any of it from him; from her racing pulse to the shortness of her breath, all of it and more are on display.

She grits her teeth and despite the swelling of her temper, tries her best to keep a level tone. Yelling, after all, means losing control and she will not lose control. “I was trying to help Felix, he — ”

But he cuts her off harshly. “Felix is a goddamn vampire, he doesn’t need your fucking help!”

Each word is a blade, twisting deeper into her, and the shock of it is enough to, temporarily, dull the anger. She draws her arms closer to herself, presses them in tight and clasps her hands together; digs her thumb into her palm, hard as she can. A comforting mechanism, one learned as a child, and even now, it helps balance her. Grounds her in the moment, in reality, and stems the flow of emotions threatening to overwhelm her.

Movement, just out of the corner of her eye, catches her attention and she sneaks a furtive glance his way. Watches as he begins to pace, feet carving a pathway in her carpet, and he lets out a sharp breath. “You just, _fuck_ ,” he stops himself, cuts the words off with a vicious growl, and his fingers twitch, no doubt itching for a cigarette she knows he no longer carries. “You have this goddamn need to save everyone else, but you never fucking think about yourself! Or me! Do you think I _enjoy_ watching you throw yourself at death over and over?”

“I only wanted to help.” Her voice shakes, emotions whirling within her like a tempest, and she fights to keep herself still.

He scoffs, so loud she winces, and then he stops, motions halting. “No, you were just trying to play the fucking hero,” he growls and the pressure at her palm increases, but she ignores the pain. “Always little miss perfect, hiding behind that damn mask and acting like a fucking saint.”

Cordelia can feel the exact moment when the last, tenuous hold on her temper snaps. Hears it break with a resounding _crack_ , and now, the anger is all she knows. It rages through her, terrible and sudden and she relishes it, lets herself drown in it. 

“You want to talk about masks?” She rises to her feet shakily, hands braced on the arm of the sofa, and looks at him. The pain is little more than a distant, shallow pang; easily pushed aside, easily overlooked.

A glint of worry flickers in those gray eyes, but it is gone as quickly as it appears, and he meets her gaze full-on. His expression is primal, fury casting a dark shadow over his sharp features, and she catches a flash of his fangs, there and then not. Any rational person would — _should_ — be terrified, but when has she ever been a rational person?

Not since four vampires came crashing into her life, that’s for certain.

“Let’s talk about you! And all of those damn walls you hide behind! That’s what you do, you know? You build wall after wall and then push people away, lock them out until you’re all alone,” she takes a step forward, has to grip the couch tighter to keep upright, and now it is her turn to be loud, tone clipped and cracking. “You bottle up every damn emotion and shove them aside, hope they just go away so you don’t have to deal with them. Sometimes, I don’t… I don’t know if you’re even _happy_ with me, or what you’re thinking, _anything_ , because you won’t fucking talk to me!”

It tumbles out of her, words like a downpour, and she can feel something warm prick at the corner of her eyes. Blinks them away, refuses to let him see her cry; not again, not now. He moves toward her, like a predator approaching his prey, and she straightens her back, stands her ground.

“Oh, like you deal with things? Sweetheart, you’ve got shit from _childhood_ piled up inside of you,” he snarls, takes another step, and says, “resentment, hurt, and have you dealt with them? No, you just put on a smile and _hope they just go away_.”

She wants to defend herself, to argue that what he says is a lie, except… it isn’t, it’s the truth, and they both know it.

He is closer now, she could reach out and touch him if she wished — and there is a traitorous part of her that wants to, fingers twitching — and she must crane her head back to look up at him, to keep their eyes locked. She may have nothing to say in defense of herself, but she will not back down, will not show weakness. Ironic, that it is Mason who drilled this lesson into her, who helped her find her own confidence to stand up for herself.

And now here she is, using it _against_ him.

Mason observes her, scans her face for something only he can see, and if he finds it, she cannot be certain. Nothing about his own expression changes, his secrets well hidden. “I might have walls, sweetheart,” he says, and there is something else just underneath that icy tone, raw and unspoken, “but I’ll tell you this: at least people get the real me. With you? It’s anyone’s fucking guess.”

The words are scarcely out of his mouth before he is moving again. Pivots on his heel, stalks toward the door, and it is not until the door slams behind him, so hard it rattles the wall, that she even registers he is gone, taking with him the anger that has kept her upright.

Cordelia falls, tumbles backward onto the couch and bows forward. Presses a hand flat against her abdomen, rage morphing into grief, and collapses in on herself. There is no fighting the tears now, they spill loose and she clamps her other hand over her mouth, tries — and fails — to swallow down the sob that swells in her throat.

A part of her screams to get up and _move_ , to go after him, to fix this, but she sits motionless. The weight in her chest keeps her here, broken and useless.

Something warm bumps against her thigh and she starts, looks down to find Galileo settled beside her, as close as he can get. He purrs quietly, a reminder that she is not alone, and she reaches for him. Threads her fingers through his fur and in the silence of her apartment, she falls apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and/or comments are appreciated! I'm also on [tumblr!](https://elmshore.tumblr.com/)


	10. sunshine and honeysuckle (mason/nb detective)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Day 10: Blood) A desperate situation calls for a desperate solution.

His wounds refuse to heal.

The pain is immense and constant and _everywhere_. It floods through his veins like a molten liquid and he is burning from within, flesh slick with sweat and shaking. Mason growls, nails scrabbling against the hard stone underneath him and he tries to move, tries to sit up, but his body won’t obey him, traitorous and unwilling.

Fingers, featherlight and cool as ice, brush against his cheek and he whines. Leans into the touch as little ripples of comfort spill over him. “Don’t try to move,” a voice tells him, soothing and gentle, and he recognizes it, would know it even if he forgot his own. 

Cordelia kneels at his side, her other hand entwined within his own, and she leans over him, red hair falling like a fiery cascade over her shoulder. He tries to focus on her face, to see her, but his vision is blurring at the edges and all he can make out are her eyes; gold and bright even in the gloom, the ring of dark shimmering amber like a beacon, a lure that draws him in. 

Lips, soft as petals, press a gentle kiss to his forehead and he swallows, throat dry and cracked. He wants to speak, but the words get stuck and his tongue is like lead, heavy and useless in his mouth. 

“Mason, I need you to listen to me, okay?”

He nods, can do little else at the moment. Feels her give his hand a squeeze, light but a reminder of her presence, that this is real and not his mind playing some horrible trick on him; she is here, with him, and he isn’t alone.

“One of the witches, she put a hex on you,” Cordelia explains, keeps her voice soft and slow, and even still, his brain scrambles to process the words. “It’s why your wounds aren’t healing, I think at least,” her laugh is quivering, uncertain, but it settles over him like a blanket of calm. “Do you know where we are?”

“No,” he manages, forcing the single word through gritted teeth, and considers it a minor victory.

She hums and her fingers are back at his cheek, tracing the cluster of freckles painted there. Back and forth, up and over, her motions are repetitive and he zeroes in on them, uses them as an anchor, to keep his eyes from closing. Hones in on her scent — lavender and citrus, sweet and vibrant — and lets it fill him, lets it dull the pain and keep it at bay.

Cordelia is good at that, he’s found; she captures his attention so easily, until there is only her and nothing else, the world falling away.

“We’re in a cave, there was a fight, and we had to run, do you remember that?”

He remembers… a fight, yes; a lot of angry witches and spells being flung everywhere, but little else. The rest is hazy, there but just out of reach, and attempting to force it only makes his head hurt, sets his skin to crawling uncomfortably. A result of the hex, he assumes, and growls again.

Stupid, fucking witches.

“The others?” His voice is hoarse, breaking at the seams, and he hates it, hates showing her this weakness. 

“I’m not sure, we all got scattered in the fray, but,” she adds, and even with his limited vision, he can see her try to smile, a shaky little thing, “I’m sure they’re fine, probably looking for us now!”

Or they’re in much the same condition he is, but Mason thinks it’s best if he avoids that line of thinking. It knots up, tangles like a string, and will, ultimately, lead him nowhere of value. He knows his teammates, their strengths and their abilities — a few witches won’t be enough to take all of them down, not if they’re together.

Fuck, but he hopes they’re together.

“Help me up,” he asks, tired of being on his back; if someone were to find them, he doubts he’ll be of any more use sitting up than he is now, but at least he’ll be able to see them.

“Mason, no, you should — ”

“ _Please_.”

The move is not an easy one, and takes both of their efforts. His limbs are heavy, near unresponsive, and he has to use every last ounce of willpower just to hoist himself up, free hand planted on the ground beside him as leverage. And, even then, he needs her help to make it the rest of the way. Cordelia wraps an arm around his waist, careful to avoid his wounds, and with a surprising amount of strength, manages to lift him.

A surge of pain ricochets through him, terrible and blinding and he topples over, crumples into her hold. Manages, at the last second, to keep himself from yelling; digs his teeth into his bottom lip so hard it bleeds and, exhausted, lays his head against her shoulder, eyes closing. 

Every instinct in him screams to fight through this, to get up and stop being so goddamn weak, but he can’t.

Her hand leaves his and he grunts, reaching for her even as she pulls away. Then, something cool presses against his forehead, firm yet gentle, and he realizes it is the back of her own hand. It falls, repeats the action at both cheeks, and she sighs.

“You have a fever, Mason,” and he has no idea how to respond to that, because he can’t even remember ever having a fever before this moment. Her hold around his middle tightens, pulls him closer, and he can feel how tense she is, fear pouring off her in waves. “We have to do something, before — ” she cuts herself off, but the unsaid words ring loud and clear.

 _Before you die_. 

He wants to tell her to go, to leave him and find the others, but he knows it would be a waste of breath; Cordelia is as stubborn as she is kind and she’ll never leave his side, not willingly, and, selfishly, he doesn’t want her to.

She strokes his hair, fingers threading through the dark locks, and lays her cheek atop his head. When she first starts to sing, it is little more than a whisper and he doesn’t recognize the language — thinks it might be Scottish, but can’t be sure — but her voice is lilting, a comfort like no other, and he listens, allows it to settle into his bones and make a home inside of him.

Wonders where she might have heard it; is it something her father would sing for her? Or, perhaps, one of her grandparents, the strange little couple who took in a fae child and raised him as their own? He could ask her, knows she would tell him, but like so many times before, he remains silent. 

_I’ll ask her later,_ he assures himself, and hopes that there will be a later.

The song ends as quietly as it began, the final notes hanging in the air between them, and when she speaks, her voice is firmer than before. 

“I have an idea,” Cordelia says, and then, after a beat, “but you won’t like it.”

For what must be the first time since he’s regained consciousness, Mason feels himself chuckle and he grins to himself. “You sound like Felix,” he teases, but she doesn’t laugh, and he forces his eyes open, to look at her, only to find her watching him.

“You need some of my blood.”

Something icy and dark wraps around his heart; clenches, tight enough to steal the air from his lungs, and he frowns; wants to ask if she’s joking, but one look in her eyes and he can see that the offer is a serious one.

“No.”

“Mason, listen, you don’t — ”

“ _No!_ ” It hurts to raise his voice, rattles in his chest and sends a fresh surge of pain coursing through him, but he doesn’t care. “It’s not an option.”

Except, it is, isn’t it?

Hate it all he wants, but her blood _could_ work. Might be enough to heal him, or at the very least, jumpstart his own healing abilities; it’s certainly powerful, that much he’s seen firsthand. And of course he’s thought about it — during sex, or the quiet moments after, when they’re both spend and she’s curled up beside him. 

But, more often than not, the thought comes to him when he’s on his own and thoughts of her consume him. Would it be sweet, like the rest of her? 

_Now’s your chance to find out_ , that treacherous little voice in his head purrs and he stomps down on it, crushes it beneath his foot and fights back a growl. Does she have any idea what she’s offering? There’s no telling what effect her blood might have on him; he remembers what it did to Murphy, the power and strength it gave him, and he shudders.

He doesn’t want that, not when the cost of it is so high; neck torn open, a bloody ruin.

Cordelia’s hand rests against his cheek once more and he tries to speak, to say _anything_ that might help her realize what an insane idea this is, but the words get stuck in his throat and all he can do is swallow them back down. 

“Mason, it’s okay,” she murmurs and he looks away from her, down at the blood now coating the front of her shirt, and hears a quiet, “I trust you.”

In his chest, his heart stutters erratically and Mason closes his eyes, lets the weight of those words settle in his chest, putting down roots and becoming a permanent fixture within him, a piece that will be a part of him always.

 _I trust you_. Three simple words, but they mean everything and so much more.

“All right,” he says and hates himself for it.

Mason pulls away from her and, hard as it is, forces himself to sit upright on his own. The wound at his side throbs, little shockwaves of pain erupting through him, and he braces a hand on the ground beside her. Twists toward her, other hand finding purchase along her waist, and leans closer. 

“Are you sure, sweetheart?” Offers her one last chance, to turn back, to avoid this.

“Yes.” Her choice is made and now, so is his.

He chooses the side untouched by Murphy, refuses to reopen the past, and lets his lips settle along the curve of her neck. The kiss is light, but he feels her shiver, and can hear her heart pounding away in her chest, like a little caged bird. She is afraid, but not of him — she’s never been afraid of him, even when she should have been — no, the fear is _for_ him; for what might happen, if this doesn’t work. 

But it has to work, for both of their sakes, it has to work.

Mason tries to be gentle, but there is little he can do as his fangs pierce her flesh and she gasps, hands reaching for him, grasping at his shoulders. And he almost pulls back, ends this now before it can hurt her worse, but then the first taste of blood hits him and his mind goes blank, stars exploding at the edge of his vision before it whites out.

She tastes like sunshine; radiant and bright and _warm_ , so very warm, a flame sweeping through him, filling every little nook and cranny. She tastes like honeysuckle; sweet and light and it is a paradise, sweet nectar that flows over his tongue like velvet and silk and all things soft, all things wonderful and good. But more than that, she tastes like magic; powerful and ancient and _amazing_ , a strength he’s never felt before consumes him and leaves him high, drunk off the flavor of her.

Already, the pain of his wounds are gone — and no doubt the wounds are as well, or very nearly — but still, he drinks. In all his hundred years or more, he’s never tasted _anything_ like this; nothing before, and nothing ever, will ever compare to the rush now coursing through his veins and damn him, but he wants _more_.

Never wants it to end, could live forever on this taste alone, wants — 

“ _Mason_.”

Her voice is a lifeline and some part of him, the one free from the haze of bloodlust, clings to it; uses it as a tether to pull himself up and out and he forces himself back. Scrambles away from her, quick as he can, and though his fangs are gone, her blood still lingers on his tongue, on his lips. He wipes it away, drags a hand across his mouth and swallows, breath shallow.

Across from him, Cordelia sways — lightheaded, no doubt — and raises a hand to her neck, fingers brushing against the already healing wound. A few drops of blood remain, staining the fair skin a bright crimson, and he fights down the urge to lick them away; snarls, instead, and clenches his fists, so tight his nails dig into his palms, uses the irritation to ignore the desire. 

“Mason? Are you okay?”

He barks out a laugh, harsh and dry. “Seriously, sweetheart? You’re asking me if I’m okay?”

Cordelia looks confused by his response, but merely scoots closer to him and reaches out, fingers tugging up the hem of his shirt. Dried blood coats both it and his skin, but the wounds _are_ gone; completely healed, as if they never existed at all, and when she looks up at him, her smile is so bright it’s almost blinding.

“It worked!”

She sounds so joyous, so utterly thrilled by his recovery, and in this moment, with that look on her face, all he wants to do is kiss her. Curls his hand around the back of her neck and leans down, claims her mouth with his own, and hears her gasp; except now the sound is different, pleased and content and he soaks it in, imprints it to memory.

A familiar flavor hits him, honey and cinnamon and a hint of tea, and he relishes it, takes in all that he can. Nothing, he knows, will ever erase the taste of her blood — it is seared into him like a brand, but this? Yes, this is just as wonderful.

When the kiss ends, she is smiling once more — or perhaps, she never stopped at all — and he can’t help but return it with a grin of his own. “I told you it would work,” she teases and he gives her side a light pinch, enough to make her giggle.

“No one likes a ‘know it all’, sweetheart.”

She blinks up at him owlishly. “Oh my god, you just sounded like one of my teachers from boarding school, Miss Moreau!”

“Clearly a smart woman then,” he muses and she tries to swat at his shoulder, but he catches her wrist in his hand, smirking. “Careful, sweetheart! I’m still in recovery, after all.”

Before she can respond, another voice reaches them. Loud, and very familiar, it echoes off the stone walls around them and they both wince at the volume.

“I found them!”

Felix bounces into view then, hands on his hips and the look on his face is downright cat-like, amber eyes twinkling as he surveys them. “Well, don’t you two look cozy! We’re not interrupting anything, are we?”

“Oh, thank goodness!” Nat appears behind him, relief clear on her face until she catches sight of the blood staining both of their clothes and Mason chokes back at laugh at the way her eyebrows nearly shoot off her face. “What happened?”

Rolling his eyes, Mason stands and offers his hand to Cordelia, helping her up and onto her feet. Keeps her hand in his, fingers lacing together, and feels her move closer, pressing against his side. “Don’t worry, it’s my blood,” he says, gaze sliding back toward Nat, “I got hurt, but it’s fine now.”

There is a flicker of understanding in those brown eyes, but also a brief flash of sympathy and Mason tenses, braces himself for words that never come. Instead, Nat merely smiles and says, “Good, I am pleased to see you both safe, then.”

“Come on,” Felix interjects and just like that, the tension evaporates, “Ava said to head back to the rendezvous point once we found you, and with the mood she’s in, I’m not gonna be the one who disobeys that command!”

They follow Felix out of the cave and back into the cool night air, the man chattering on and on about how they were able to outsmart the witches, eventually rounding them all up. Nat cuts in every so often, to clarify a few exaggerations, and Mason feels that knot inside of him untangle, glad to see that he’d been right.

It would take more than a few witches to bring down all of Unit Bravo.

As they make their way back through the trees, to where Ava is waiting, he feels Cordelia slow to a halt and he stops, turning to look at her, their hands still locked together. 

“Are you...really okay?”

He chuckles, heart swelling at the affection shining in her gaze, and tugs her back toward him. Leans down, pressing a kiss against her forehead, and nods. “Yeah, sweetheart, I’m okay.” And he is, thanks to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and/or comments are appreciated! I'm also on [tumblr!](https://elmshore.tumblr.com/)


	11. risk and compromise (mason + nb detective)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Day 11: Transformation) Eden's has their first major fight with their wives, and turns to Mason for some advice.

In the end, it’s always the kitchen, isn’t it?

No matter how or why they’re upset, or even where they are when it happens, they always wind up in a kitchen. Eden’s sure there must be some weird, psychological reason for it; maybe because it represents the _comfort of home_ , or the _closeness of family_ , or whatever. Honestly, they don’t really care — they’re not a shrink, and they have no interest in psychoanalyzing themselves.

Eden already has to live in their own head around the clock, they really don’t want to spend even _more_ time there, thanks. Besides, if they’re going to mess with all of that introspective bullshit, they’d better be getting paid for it and sadly, they’re broke as hell.

And anyway, where’s the fun in understanding the garbage fire that is their brain? Nah, best to leave it a mystery and just enjoy the surprises it brings on a daily basis.

So, Eden opts to remain oblivious. Decides not to focus on the _why_ as they barrel into the kitchen, stomping over to the fridge, and all but rip the door open. A rush of cold air slams into them and they shiver, goosebumps popping up one after another all over their arms, making them feel itchy and weird and — 

“If you’re not gonna get anything, close the fucking door.”

Their heart leaps up and slams into their throat, beating like a jackhammer, and Eden lets out a noise that is definitely _not_ a shriek. Nope, most certainly not, it’s more of a… dignified gasp, really. Whipping their head around, they find the source of the scare easily enough and scowl, gray eyes narrowing.

Mason. 

Near the back of the kitchen, he’s seated at a little, square table tucked into the corner, and he’s not even looking at them; his eyes are glued to the phone in his hand, thumb absently scrolling along the screen.

“Didn’t anybody ever tell you it’s rude to brood in kitchens and scare unsuspecting humans?”

“I’m not brooding,” he snaps and tosses them a quick glance, eyes flicking toward the fridge behind them. “You gonna close that or what?”

Rolling their eyes, they lean forward and quickly snatch a bottle of apple juice off the bottom shelf, then slam the door shut. Pivoting on their heel, Eden heads for the small island in the middle of the room and clambers onto one of the stools, feet dangling high above the floor. “If you sit in a dark corner, all alone in a room,” they start, unscrewing the cap off before tossing it down, “then you’re brooding, them’s the rules!”

“Well, whoever made the rules can go fuck themselves,” Mason grumbles and then, finally, looks at them directly, eyes narrowing. “So, what’s your problem?”

Eden blinks. “My problem? And why would you think I have a problem? Can’t a person just crave some good, old apple juice that’s ninety-nine percent sugar and maybe one percent apple?”

He snorts, a hard sound that echoes off the walls, and sets his phone down. “You came in here looking like you were ready to murder someone and,” he props an elbow on the table, resting his cheek in his hand, “you were doing that mumbling thing under your breath, which you do when you’re pissed.”

“Okay, I’m not sure if I should be touched or creeped out that you even pay attention to that habit.”

“Take it however you want,” he shrugs and they watch as he slings his other arm over the back of the chair, still watching them. “But if you’re just going to sit there all riled up over something and mutter to yourself, can you do it somewhere else? It’s distracting.”

It’s an invitation, Mason-style. Eden has known him long enough now to recognize when he does this; gives them a subtle opening to talk or vent or whatever they need, but always with the option of ignoring it, of pretending it never happened so neither of them have to deal with the unfortunate fact that they’re _friends_ and actually want to, y’know, _help_ one another.

Because, frankly, that’s a little gross.

And on any other day, Eden would take that out — because talking about things has never been their forte, it’s so much easier to just ignore it and move on and hope it goes away — but for some reason, at this moment, the offer is too tempting to pass up. The issue is related to vampires, and he is a vampire, so… maybe he could help?

Probably not, but it never hurts to try. Or, well, it does, but they’re willing to take that risk.

So, they raise the bottle to their lips, knock back a gulp of apple juice, and say, “I got into a fight with Nat and Ava this morning.”

For a moment, he is quiet; just watches them, expression neutral bordering on bored, and then he scoffs. “You three finally got into a fight, huh? Damn, I guess Felix owes me twenty bucks now.”

“You bet on when I’d get into a fight with my wives?!”

“Yeah, Felix said you guys would never fight, and I told him that _everybody_ fights,” he smirks then and leans forward, “especially when they’re sleeping together.”

Eden grabs the bottle cap and chucks it at his head — he dodges, because of course he does, and easily catches the cap with his hand, but the action makes them feel better. “You’re such an ass,” they mutter and down another sip of juice.

He throws the cap into the air, catches it, and chuckles. “Guilty as charged, but you already knew that.” A pause, silence hanging uncomfortably in the air between them, before he asks, “So, what was the fight about?”

“I want to become a vampire.”

The cap falls. Clatters to the floor and bounces, racing under the table where it lands with a light _clink_. Mason looks at them as if they’ve suddenly grown another head and Eden grimaces, resisting the urge to roll their eyes again. They clutch the bottle, fingers gripping the icy sides tight so hard the plastic crackles, and wait for his reaction.

In their head, their wives’ reactions still echo on an endless loop, and no matter what, they can’t get it to stop.

“You want — really?” He sounds so dumbfounded and they briefly wonder if this is how every vampire reacts to hearing that someone else wants to become one; if so, then it’s a damn miracle _anybody_ ever gets turned.

“Yes, really,” they quip and lift a hand, shoving it through their hair, strawberry blonde locks getting tangled in their fingers. “I mean, is it really that surprising?”

Eden doesn’t think so. They’re almost thirty now, and unless they’ve completely misunderstood the way aging works, they won’t be getting any younger. And while the prospect of getting old never used to bother them, that sort of went out the window after falling in-love — and then marrying — two _immortal_ vampires.

Mason rolls his lips and sits up straighter, arm falling to rest on the table. He opens his mouth, seems to think better of his initial statement, and closes it with a snap. Waits, and Eden can practically see the gears turning in his head. Then, finally, “So you asked them to turn you?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“And they didn’t like it?”

Eden barks out a laugh and points a finger gun his way, winking as they click their tongue. “Bang! Right on the money!”

Honestly, it might be a bit of an understatement to simply say they ‘didn’t like it.’ Both women had reacted way worse than Eden predicted they might, from Ava’s refusal to even entertain the idea to Nat looking like someone just outright stabbed her, their opinions on the matter were clear: it was absolutely _not_ gonna happen.

“Why? I mean, they had to figure this was coming eventually,” he states and not for the first time in their strange little friendship, Eden is struck with the desire to hug him. 

They don’t, of course, but it rises up in them and dances about, until they manage to shoo it away.

“Because it’s too dangerous, or whatever,” they groan and then slap their hand against the counter, hard enough to make their arm shake. “I mean, giving birth is dangerous too, but I got through that just fine!”

And sure, yeah, they know having a baby isn’t the same as being turned — there’s risks for both, obviously, but one clearly has more stakes than the other. Still, it’s the principal of the matter, and they’re going to say it totally counts. After all, they’re the one who went through nine hours of painful labor, they have the right to use it in their defense if they want to.

“It _is_ dangerous,” Mason agrees, ignoring their own responding scoff, and continues, “I’ve seen plenty of people die from the transition.”

“I get that, but it should be _my_ choice!”

He hums. “Do you? It’s not like it is in those dumb movies,” he counters and grips the edge of the table, fingers drumming out a disjointed melody. “The bite hurts like a bitch, or so I’ve been told, and then we inject you with venom and after that, it’s a Russian roulette to see if you survive or die.”

“Look, I understand that, but — ”

“So what happens if you die then? You’ve got a kid, for fuck’s sake.”

Their eyes narrow, hackles raising as they lean forward, and underneath them, the stool creeks. “Don’t bring Sparrow into this, it has nothing to do with him!”

“Oh, doesn’t it?” Mason arches an eyebrow at them and, if he’s at all put off by their dark expression, he does a fantastic job of hiding it. “Seems to me he does, since I’m pretty sure that you dying might have an impact on the kid.

 _What happens if you should die? What will we tell Sparrow?_ The question, spoken in Nat’s tone, rings through their head and Eden sighs, head bowing as they close their eyes. It’s a mistake, because all they can picture is Sparrow — those big, brown eyes warm and engaging, and his little mop of blond curls, soft as silk; the dimples when he smiles, a gift from Ava no doubt, and his laughter, bubbling and bright and… _fuck_.

Eden knows it’s a bit selfish. The transformation wouldn’t just affect them, it would impact their whole family and if they died, if it didn’t work, they’d be breaking the one promise they made when Sparrow was born — to always be there for him, no matter what. 

Off to their left, Mason blows out a breath and they hear him stand, the chair knocking against the wall. “Look, Eden, it’s not my place or my job to tell you what to do or how to handle your marriage,” he says, and it’s perhaps the most serious they’ve ever heard him, “but you need to be sure about this, because once it’s done, it’s done and you can’t reverse the outcome.”

And there’s something in his tone; heavy and raw, that tells Eden this is a topic he’s thought about before. They want to ask, but of course they don’t — they’ve got a rule, the two of them; no prying, no outright asking.

But, much as they hate to admit it, he’s right. Damn him, but he’s right. They still want this, of course — to be turned, to ensure that they can spend eternity with the women they love — and nothing will stop them from wanting it, but maybe they have a little more to consider before making any actual decisions.

Not alone, however. He’s right about that too — they’re married, which means compromise and honesty and all the other jazz the official talked about during the ceremony.

“Fine, and I can’t believe I’m going to say this out loud but,” they take a deep breath, let it out, and say, “you’re right, I should talk to them again.”

His expression shifts instantly, lips spreading into a wolfish grin, and they _know_ he’s never going to let them live this down. “I’m sorry, could you say that again?” He teases, putting a hand behind his ear and turning his head to the side, “I didn’t quite catch it.”

“Yeah, I said: go fuck yourself.”

They slide off the stool and, juice bottle still in hand, make their way toward the kitchen exit. “Anyway, thanks for the talk, Dr. Mason,” and it’s light, a jest, but they know he can hear the sincerity buried underneath the layers.

“I’ll send you the bill for my services,” he calls after them and they laugh.

“Just put it on my credit!”

Even they don’t need supernatural hearing to make out his mumble, _not if I want to get paid this century_. They smirk and make sure to give him a final, parting wave on their way out, middle finger extended high and proud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and/or comments are appreciated! I'm also on [tumblr!](https://elmshore.tumblr.com/)


	12. map of you (nat/ava/nb detective)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Day 12: Flesh) Eden has a little surprise for Nat and Ava.

This is, by far, her favorite part.

Oh, the sex itself is _wonderful_ — passion and exuberance and all consuming, a tangle of limbs and tongues, a chorus of moans and sighs — but it is this, basking in their shared afterglow, that Nat adores. A quiet time, one filled with shared breaths and gentle caresses and existing together, indulging in the love that binds them.

It is something she has sought for centuries, this ever elusive feeling; always slipping through her fingers like water and vanishing into smoke before her eyes. It is all she has ever wanted — to be cherished, and to cherish in kind. 

To be _loved_ , really and truly and completely.

Cool air ghosts over her bare skin, a phantom touch, and she shivers, little goosebumps dotting along her arms and legs. Already, the heat of their lovemaking is dissipating, and the energy in the room has shifted; from charged to calm, frantic to lazy. The electricity still lingers, but she knows they are spent for the night — even a vampire must know her limits.

Nat directs her focus to her bedmates, the two halves of her heart and soul. They sit across from her, expressions of utter contentment written on their beautiful faces and it makes her heart sing to see it, to know that she had a hand in causing their pleasure.

Leaning back against the headrest, Ava looks right at home; her fair skin is flushed, yet still stark against the deep burgundy of their silken sheets and those toned legs are spread wide, relaxed. Her blonde hair is loose, falling to her shoulders in a messy cascade, a golden halo framing her face and in the dim glow of the room, her eyes shine like emerald fire. 

She appears serene, lips pulled into a light smile, and Nat finds that it is a good look on her; centuries she has known this woman, loved her, and yet now, she knows she is seeing a side of Ava kept even from her — one protected behind walls that are slowly, but surely, crumbling.

And there, nestled snugly in her arms is the reason for it all, the source of their shared happiness. 

Eden looks positively resplendent, aglow in the soft lamp light and skin tinted a lovely rosy pink, the hue spilling from their cheeks and down their neck, to swell of their breasts and further still. Eyes the color of doves feathers watch her, half-lidded and shining with such open adoration it is like a thief, come to steal the air from her lungs. Their hair is damp, strands of strawberry blonde clinging to freckled cheeks, but rest flows freely down their back and over Ava’s thighs.

Over three hundred years she has lived, seen countless artworks from across the globe and marveled at them all, but Nat knows the truth in her heart: that nothing, before or after, shall ever compare to the sight now before her. 

They are no mere paintings in a gallery, beautiful but untouchable — they are here, with her, and well within reach.

Nat stretches out her arms, lets her hands settle at Eden’s ankles, and works her way the legs slowly, precisely. Keeps her touch gentle, featherlight, and brushes her nails along the skin as she goes, ever on and ever upward. Hears them make a sound, one that bubbles up from deep in their chest and it is soft, a moan but also a sigh, and Nat would bottle it if she could. Tuck it away, so that she might never lose it.

“If you’re hoping for a round four,” Eden murmurs, their own hands curled around Ava’s knees, fingers tapping out little rhythms that only they seem to know, “then I’m gonna need a minute, or five. Not all of us have vampire stamina, y’know.”

Ava hums and tilts her head down, lips next to Eden’s ear, lips grazing the shell. “You seemed perfectly capable only moments earlier,” she says and her hands rest atop their sternum, fingers splaying out and drawing little half-circles. “Indeed, if I recall correctly, _you_ were the one who requested we keep going, is that not right, Nat?”

Green eyes zero in on her, sparkling with a newfound mischief, and Nat cannot help but smile in return, eager to play along. “Yes, that is correct,” she replies and scoots closer, her own hands nearing Eden’s thighs. “I believe it was something along the lines of _yes, please more_ and _no, don’t stop, oh please don’t_ — ” her words are cut off by a foot knocking into her leg and now her smile is a smirk, keen ears picking up on the way Eden’s heart beats faster, pounding in their chest like a drum. “Did I misunderstand you, love?”

“It’s really not fair,” Eden grumbles, tearing their gaze away from Nat as they dip their head back, to look up at Ava, “how you two gang up on me.”

“In battle, there is no fair,” Ava counters, each word dripping with a smugness that Nat knows all too well, “one must use any advantage they have, to win.”

Nat allows them a moment of playful bickering, voices hushed and laced with sincere amusement. It is something they seem to enjoy, this light verbal sparring, and while normally she would be content to listen, she finds her attention occupied elsewhere tonight. 

From the moment she first met them, Nat has found herself enraptured by Eden — they are, quite literally, a piece of art. Both in the easy, vibrant way they move through the world, a force of light and energy that cannot be ignored, to the artwork littering their form. Colorful tattoos, faded scars, and of course, a plethora of freckles; starbursts and constellations, patterns she knows by heart. 

And so here, in the peace of this moment, she gives herself time to take it all in again.

Brown eyes travel the length of them, and she wants to know the story behind each and every one, but there are so many, and there is no rush; they have time enough, now. Nat catches sight of a small gash, just on the outside of their knee, and she reaches for it, traces it with her finger.

“Where did this come from?”

Eden stops mid-sentence and looks down, blinking. “What? Oh! That,” they laugh and it is, without a doubt, one of the most beautiful sounds she has ever heard, “uh, I was seven and I decided to leap off my bike in the middle of jumping a ramp.”

“Why would you do such a thing?” Ava asks, alarm clear in her voice, and Eden laughs again, louder this time.

“Because this kid, uh,” a pause, gears turning in their head, and then, “Mikey something or other, he dared me to do it.”

And anyone who knows them will attest that once challenged, Eden Hollis never backs down.

Ava, unsurprisingly, seems dissatisfied with her answer, brows pinched downward in confusion, and so Nat quickly moves her quest along. Lands on a bit of writing, further up the side of their leg and follows the slope of the letters with her nail, not recognizing the handwriting. “And this? _Believe not in yourself, but in me who believes in you_?”

“Oh, that, uh it’s just something uh Old Lady Wagner used to tell me.”

“And she is?”

“Dead.”

Ava sighs, a heavy sound, and Eden snorts. “Well, she is! But she was just this old lady who I used to spend time with when I was a kid, she taught me stuff about music and was weird,” they explain, sliding their hands up Ava’s legs and settling atop her thighs. “She even helped me dye my hair for the first time, Rebecca _freaked_ when she came home and saw me with bubblegum pink hair.”

It is easy enough to imagine Eden in such a color; for as long as she has known them, their hair is a canvas all to itself. They have adorned it with a variety of hues, from orange to green to blue and even a mixture. Right now, it is its natural shade, but Nat doubts that will last long — they are restless with routine, always seeking something new and exciting.

She loves that about them, a testament to their humanity; evolving and adapting, moving forward, never stagnant. _May they never lose it_ , a voice inside of her prays.

By now, Ava seems to have caught on to her little game, and joins in. Pulls her hand away from Eden’s abdomen and raises it to their shoulder; presses the pads of her fingers into the flowers drawn there, an array of sunflowers and daisies, winding down their arm in a flourish of black ink. 

A sleeve, Eden called it once, and told her that they had planned on doing both arms, but gave up after the one.

“Any special meaning behind these?” Ava’s fingers follow the map of the petals, one after another, and Eden shivers at the touch, something that does not go unnoticed by either vampire.

“Not really? I like sunflowers and I like daisies, so I figured I’d get them.” Simple, to the point, and Nat cannot help but laugh. “What? I think they’re cool flowers, that’s all!”

She shakes her head, and tilts forward, the bed shifting under her weight. Reaches out, hand cupping their cheek, and sweeps her thumb over the spattering of stars painted there. “I was only thinking that they suit you well, dearheart.”

That rosy hue darkens, becoming a faint crimson, and Nat can hear their pulse quicken; sees Ava tense ever so slightly, acutely aware of the way Eden’s body reacts. It fills them both with a hunger, she knows — a desire to lure out even more, to revel in their humanity, in the way their heart beats out a splendid rhapsody and their pupils dilate, until gray becomes black.

Her hand drifts down, fingers tracing the curve of their lips and dipping down, over their chin. Glides down their throat, lingering over their pulse — it roars under her touch, erratic and needy — and ever lower, between the slope of their breasts. Nat hears them groan, breath catching and turning shallow, and their legs, spread open and hooked over Ava’s, twitch.

Their growing arousal is clear, fills the air around them and Nat risks a glance up, meets Ava’s darkened gaze, and a delicious heat floods through her. Perhaps it is time to put a hold on her little game, then.

Slides her hand lower, and stops, fingers bumping against something foreign. Nat blinks, and for a moment, the haze of lust is pulled back from her mind like a curtain, allowing her rational thought once more. 

“You never told us, love,” she says and her voice is husky, thick with desire, “what is this for?”

The bandage, white and square, rests just over their heart; it is small, held in place by medical tape, and has been an absolute mystery since Eden arrived at the Warehouse this afternoon.

Any attempts to question them about the strange addition were met with evasion; shrugging shoulders and hand waves, always followed by a quick change of topic. When it became clear that neither she nor Ava would get any answers from Eden on the subject, they both agreed to move on; though they were careful, of course, to be mindful of it during sex. Not an easy task for either of them, to be sure — Eden has a way of driving all logical thought from their minds.

Yet, this whole time it has been sitting in the back of her mind — gnawing away at her, like some ravenous animal desperate for a meal — and now, Nat wonders if she will get the answer she seeks.

“Oh, yeah! I forgot about this,” Eden exclaims, looking a little sheepish before they wink. “I was actually going to show you guys once we got back to the room, but then you both jumped me and — ”

“We did not jump you, Eden,” Ava argues, but her words are quickly waved away like tendrils of smoke.

“— and we got distracted,” they finish, and Nat cannot help but chuckle at the way Ava glowers down at them, clearly not appreciative of having her words ignored. “You want to see it? I promise it’s not like, super gross or anything.”

Nat inches closer, slotting herself firmly between both of her lover’s legs and ghosts a finger along the edge of the opaque tape. “Yes, if you are willing to show us?”

“Sure, it’s kinda for you two anyway,” they shrug and oh, now her curiosity is too great to ignore. They lift their hands, still resting at Ava’s thighs, and reach for the bandage, only for Nat to stop them. 

“I can do it for you, darling,” she offers, perhaps a tad too quickly; she has seen Eden remove bandages before, ripping them off with little care to the damage they might inflict and with this being in such a delicate spot, she thinks a more… careful approach, might be called for. 

They nod, hands falling back to their original location, and settle down. “Sure, knock yourself out, Natarino.”

A snort, this time from Ava, no doubt in regards to the silly nickname. Nat, personally, finds them rather endearing; a sign that Eden cares enough to make her name their own. Unfortunately — or perhaps fortunately, if you were to ask the blonde — Ava’s name does not lend itself well to such titles.

Which has, of course, not stopped Eden from trying.

Gently, Nat begins to peel away the tape. It has a firm hold, but her efforts are meticulous and it is slow, but she gets it off. Pulls the bandage away, to reveal the secret underneath, and oh. _Oh_. Feels her heart stutter-stop in her chest, and now another type of warmth is coursing through her veins.

She drops the little bit of cloth and tape onto the bed beside her, and then her fingers are back, hovering over the still fresh tattoo, careful not to touch the sensitive skin. There, two words, written in a hand she knows as well as her own and ensnared in a sea of tulips, weaving elegantly through the letters.

“ _Tu omnia_ ,” Nat murmurs, and hears Ava’s intake of breath, sudden and sharp, like a shot. She recognizes the words, their meaning, and when she dares to look at the other woman, Nat can see the same swirl of raw emotions in her gaze that she feels in her heart. 

_You are everything_.

“Let me see,” Ava pleads, tone heavy and rough, and Eden complies; twists in her arms, so that the blonde might see the tattoo for herself. Those eyes, so very often like ice, seem to thaw at the sight and she swallows thickly. “You did this for us?”

“Yeah, well, and for me too,” Eden says and turns back around, leaning their head against Ava’s shoulder, a bashful smile on their lips. “I figured, and listen, don't laugh okay? I know this is sappy as hell, but I thought it’d be nice to have something for both of you. Latin for Ava, and tulips for you.”

Something warm pricks at the corner of her eyes and Nat blinks it away, smiling. “And why tulips, if I may ask?”

Eden shifts, clearly having hoped she would _not_ ask, and then, quieter, “I thought the meaning was appropriate, and no I’m not gonna say it, you know what it is!” The last part is rushed, tumbles out in one breath, and Nat fights down the urge to laugh, joy spreading through her in waves. 

Yes, she knows the meaning well.

There is so much she wants to say, so many words resting on the tip of her tongue, but none of them seem fitting for this moment — all of them pale in comparison to this gift, and so, Nat opts for action instead. Lays her hand against Eden’s cheek once more and leans in, capturing their lips with her own in a kiss that is both sweet and so much more, filled with all she cannot find the strength to say.

Eden returns it, lips parting for her easily, and she longs to give in, to take the invitation and drown herself in the taste of them — cinnamon and apple and _heaven_ — but she resists; breaks away, instead, and curls her fingers around their chin. Turns their head, and offers that tempting mouth to Ava, who accepts eagerly.

One might assume that there would be jealousy, seeing the two people she loves kissing not her but each other, but no, nothing could be farther from the truth. It brings her a pleasure she cannot yet describe — a carnal pleasure, yes, but something else, something deeper. She adores them, as they adore her, and as they adore one another. Three become one, fitting together like missing pieces of a puzzle.

Ava, infamous for her restraint, loses all sense of it where Eden is concerned and her kiss is more insistent, demanding, and when she pulls away, Eden can scarcely breathe.

“So,” they manage, breathless and their head falls to the side, eyes meeting Nat’s, “I take it you two liked my little surprise?”

“Oh yes, in fact,” Nat purrs and leans in closer still, her other hand descending down; over their stomach and on, sliding between their legs and oh, but they are so wet, inner thighs slick with their arousal. “I think we may just have to give you a gift in return, darling one.”

Their moan, broken and heady, is all the answer she needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and/or comments are appreciated! I'm also on [tumblr!](https://elmshore.tumblr.com/)
> 
> (also bonus points to anyone who can tell me the source of the quote Eden used as their tattoo)


	13. don't let me go (mason/nb detective)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Day 13: Apology) A fight, a misunderstanding, and now, an apology. This follows day 9's prompt!

She smiles.

That is, after all, the most crucial part. _Always_ remember to smile; it puts others at ease, makes them feel safe and comfortable. Keeps them in the dark, at a comfortable distance, and when she smiles, they never linger or ask questions. 

It is a mask — pretty and soft and utterly fake, one she knows better than herself.

So, she smiles. Holds her head high, moves with a steady pace and easy purpose, betraying nothing.

And it works, because of course it does. She is Cordelia, and when she does something, she does it right. Perfect, or not at all. This is nothing new for her, an act so ingrained it is as simple as breathing, instinctual. So easy to slip behind the mask and let herself fade away, hold the world around her at bay, if only for a little while.

The mask is constant, a safeguard, and in the end, Cordelia makes it back to her room in one piece.

Enters and shuts the door behind her with a quiet _click_. The room is dark, save for thin slivers of light slanting through the nearly closed blinds, and it is quiet, save for the dull hum of the air conditioner. She turns, achingly slow, and leans forward, pressing her forehead against the cool wood. Her hand falls, twists the lock into place, and lingers on the knob, fingers digging into it so tight she wonders if it might break.

Already, she can feel that familiar sting in the corner of her eyes — it greets her like an old friend, the one who refuses to leave, who loiters about even as you try to cut them out of your life all together. Squeezes them shut, hard, and inhales; a sharp, shaky sound and it is here, in the solitude of her room, that she shatters.

Pain crashes into her like a tidal wave, pulls her under the surface with a force so great she is drowning in it, left only to gasp and struggle for air, trying to reach the surface. Comes undone as the first sob tears through her like a knife and her chest burns, tight and constricting and oh, this is worse than dying — she has faced death many times, come so close to that eternal slumber, and never once did it hurt like this.

There is no turning back now, no saving herself from this, and all she can do is give herself over to it, lose herself to the shadows creeping along the edges of her mind.

Finally, the tears come. Streaking down her face like liquid fire and she can taste them on her lips, salty and bitter, as she lets out another terrible wail. Lifts her hand and slams it against the door once, then twice, and then three more times.

God, but she is so _stupid_.

Her legs give way beneath her, the weight of her heart too much to bear, and she sinks to the floor, knees landing in the soft carpet. Drops her arms and wraps them around herself, bending forward, red hair falling like a veil around her. A barrier, between her and the rest of the world. Wonders if she holds on tight enough, will it be enough to keep her from falling apart entirely?

Will there be anything left of her to salvage, when this is over?

Ridiculous, to think that any happiness she may have found would last. It is always the same, in the end; life gives her something good, a bit of joy, and just when she feels comfortable, tricks herself into believing that perhaps she _deserves_ to be happy, it is taken from her. Stolen away and she is left with nothing, alone.

Alone, always _alone_ , and god, but she is so tired of being alone.

 _This is your fault_ , whispers a voice from the darkened corner of her mind, hateful and accusatory and so dreadfully right. She hates it, wants to take it and shove it back into whatever dusty old box it crawled out of, but she knows it speaks the truth. The blame for this rests on her shoulders, yet another failure to add to her collection and she is not sure how many more she can hold, before it is too great a weight to carry.

If only she had just apologized sooner, or simply let it go and avoided the fight all together — that is what she does, after all. Avoids and deflects; denies, denies, _denies_. Smiles and apologizes and buries it all away, ignoring the pain to keep the person. She could have saved herself this agony, none of this had to happen and they could still be happy. Her heart, she thinks, might still be whole.

This _is_ her fault. She deserves this, for ever daring to think that she could try and reach for more.

Her mind, traitorous and poisonous, offers no comfort. Memories rush forth, float behind her eyes, and try as she might, there is no ridding herself of them — Mason and another woman, one she has never seen before. Inches apart, her hand lazily draped over his arm, and oh, what a lovely picture they pained.

Fae. Cordelia sensed it before she even turned the corner, a prickling feeling at the back of her mind, but the sight of her alone had been enough of a tell; bronze skin covered in a dusting of shimmering gold and those elegantly pointed ears, peeking out from behind a curtain of long, plum-colored hair. No hybrid either, like her, but a full-blooded fae, and it makes sense, of course it does, that he would seek someone more like himself.

An equal, a true partner. Someone who understood his world, who could fight for themselves — confident and beautiful and so very far from herself.

Not a liability, a job he is forced to endure.

After all, what truly makes her special? Her blood? Two heritages mingled together, othering her, leaving her on the outside of both? No, all it does is put the people she loves most in danger. Forces them to take on threat after threat, all in the name of protecting her.

Another sob rips through her and she slams a hand over her mouth, body shaking in an effort to keep her grief contained. _Foolish, weak girl_. Never learns, never realizes that the more she tries the more she fails. It is a lesson she should know well by now; she can memorize algorithms and languages and more, but not this.

So she pays for it, with each shuddering cry she pays her dues.

Flashes of gray eyes flit through her mind and she grasps at the carpet with her other hand, claws at the plush. Something new, raw and unnamed, forms in a bubble just under her ribs, waiting. He had looked right at her, only for a moment to be sure, but long enough to tell her that he _knew_ she had been there.

To tell her that it had not been a mistake, or a misunderstanding. _I want you to see this_ , those eyes told her, and she did. With crystal clear clarity, she saw all of it.

Her hand becomes a fist and she pounds it against the floor, each strike sending a fresh surge of pain rocketing up her arm. _His interests never last long_ , Felix told her once, what feels like an eternity ago, and how she wishes she had listened then. Took the warning for what it was, and heeded it. But how could she have? It had been far too late, then.

Cordelia had given him her heart, by that point, and now that heart is back in her hands. Bloody and bruised and _broken_. Again.

Really, she ought to know better by now, should be able to recognize the signs and know to run the other way, warning bells screaming in her head, but she never does. _You've such a keen mind_ , Eleanor used to tell her, amber eyes warm and sad and piercing straight to the core of her, _but you are ruled by your heart, Lia. Be careful, should it break, it may just break you with it._

Well, she has managed to fail that bit of advice rather spectacularly.

A laugh, brittle as glass, rises in her throat and spills out. Mingles with a sob and oh, what a fine image she must be. Collapsed on the floor, bawling and laughing, how very _human_ of her. There may be fae blood running through her, magic and power and immortality, but at the end of the day, this is a mortal vice she shall never shake.

Weak and pathetic, so easily torn asunder.

It amazes her, truly, that Mason has dealt with her for this long. Were it her, she would have long since given up on herself — everyone does, eventually. One by one, they leave her, and she is left with no one. Her parents, Daphne, Bobby, Noah, and now Mason. How many more will she lose, before she loses herself completely? There is only so much rejection and abandonment she can handle, before she falls apart.

Perhaps… is something wrong with her?

She tries so hard to be perfect, to be whatever people require of her. Adopts mask after mask, each persona carefully tailored to ensure that she pleases them all, that she meets — _exceeds_ — their expectations of her. Gives and gives and gives, rarely asks for anything in return, always ready to help and to do what needs to be done, all with a smile.

What more can she do? What more does this world demand of her? What — 

A knock, deafening and sharp, brings her crashing back to reality. Her head shoots up, hazel eyes fixed on the door, and silence greets her. Then, another knock; firmer this time, more insistent.

Cordelia wants to slap herself for being so utterly foolish — would, quite possibly, were she not frozen in place. Of course, _of course_ this is happening; she is in a facility filled with people who could hear a pin drop clear across the building, privacy is an illusion. Only a matter of time, really, before _someone_ came to check in on her.

She sniffs and drags a hand roughly over her face, trying — and failing, no doubt — to remove any trace of the tears. Her eyes feel swollen, burning and tired, and she knows without even having to look that her face is in even worse shape. Casts a sideways glance to the mirror hanging just on the opposite wall anyway, and winces; splotchy red patches cover her cheeks, the tip of her nose, and of course, her hair is a mess.

Cordelia digs her fingers through the red locks, makes a vain attempt to return it to some semblance of order, and then gives up. There is no helping it, not when her arms are shaking and sore.

Knock number three comes, ringing in her ears, and she pushes herself to her feet. Sways, balance off-kilter, and then reaches for the handle to steady herself. Inhales deeply, counts to ten, exhales, and opens the door. Expects, naturally, to see Felix or Nat, possibly even Ava, but of course, it is none of them.

 _He_ stands there, brows drawn together harshly and a deep frown on his lips, and she is rooted to the spot.

They stare, unmoving, at one another and there is a flicker of something in those storm-colored eyes that has a fresh pang of hurt jolting through her heart. Mason shoves his hands into his pockets, gaze trained on her, and as she soaks in the sight of him, a name for the emotion still festering underneath her ribs comes to her. Swift, and with little ceremony, it fills her, brands itself into her soul, and yes, now she knows what it is.

Anger. She is _angry_ ; at him, at herself, and at this whole situation.

It floods through every inch of her, fills all the little nooks and crannies and oh, it feels so much better than the pain. Powerful and intoxicating, the rage, and she could drown in it, she thinks. Stands a little taller, a bit of steel overtaking the porcelain, and for the first time in a very long while, she acts before she thinks. Moves her hand suddenly and slams the door in his face.

Or, rather, she tries to.

His hand lunges out, just a hair quicker, and stops it dead in its tracks. Cordelia pushes, pulls, and through it all he remains steadfast, a boulder that will not budge.

“Let go of the door,” she demands, surprised at the bite in her tone, but it seems to have no effect on him.

“No.”

“Let. Go. _Now_.”

“ _No_.”

The anger is like a raw nerve, sensitive and all it takes is this, one little touch, to cause an eruption. She yells, a frantic and fraying sound that rattles out of her throat, and slams her hand against the door. Looks up at him, face searing, and snaps, “I said let go of the fucking door!”

Mason’s eyes widen at her outburst — only a fraction, but she notices, always notices when it is him — and then they go dark, hard and determined. “And I said no, we need to talk,” he grits out, each word filtered through clenched teeth.

Cordelia barks out a laugh, mirthless and dry, and tosses a hand into the air, strands of hair flying erratically around her face at the motion. “Now you want to talk? A little late for that, don’t you think? Oh! I know! Why don’t you go back and talk to that fae woman? You two seemed to be having a lovely conversation, really hope I didn’t interrupt anything special.”

“What are — no, listen that wasn’t — ”

But she has no interest in what it might, or might not, have been. All she wants is to lose herself in the fury swelling inside of her, to wrap it around her like a shield and keep all of the pain at bay, if only for a little while longer. Understands now, why he always chose anger when building his walls; it is easier, a fiery balm.

She takes a step away and pivots, stalking back into the room. Lets him have the door and his excuses, wraps her arms around herself once more and refuses to look at him. “I don’t care,” she chokes out, eyes focusing instead on the thin amber beam of sunlight staining her floor. “Just go away, Mason, please.”

 _You do it so well_ , that voice again, hissing into her ear like a serpent.

And he will, she knows it. This is not him, the talking or the emotions, any of it. Makes him uneasy, throws him off balance, and so he avoids them entirely; ignores the problem, buries it down deep and lets it turn into a tumor, rotting away at him.

In that way, they are very much alike.

Behind her, the door shuts with a harsh _thud_ and she lets out a quivering breath. Her arms fall and she turns around only for her eyes to go wide, shock hitting her like a bolt of lightning.

He is still here.

Mason regards her warily, as if she were some dangerous animal ready to strike, and his eyes linger on her face, on the tear stained cheeks and for a time, he is still. Only watches her, takes in the sight of her, and Cordelia feels an overwhelming urge to disappear, to vanish from sight and mind and existence, if only so he will stop looking at her.

He takes a step toward her, cautious in a way she has never seen him before, and her hand shoots out, the motion enough to bring him to a sudden halt. “Don’t!” The word bursts past her lips, echoing in her ears, and she does her best to hold his gaze. “Please, just… don’t.”

An emotion flares to life in those beautiful eyes and her mind, ever treacherous, tells her it might have been pain, but she knows better this time. That would be impossible, of course. But, _why_ is he still here? Does he derive some sort of pleasure, from hurting her?

“Cordelia.” Her name is a whisper, hushed and strained, as if saying it pains him. “Listen, that — earlier, I mean, with — fuck, it wasn’t what you think it was, okay?”

“You mean it wasn’t you trying to hurt me?” She swallows, throat dry and thick, and presses on, words and emotions spinning wildly in her head. “Because that’s what it looked like from where I was standing, and let me tell you, it worked. Are you happy now? Is this what you wanted to hear? You’ve won, the fight is over.”

“No! _No_ , fuck, just let me — ” Mason snarls, a terrible sound, and rakes a hand through his dark hair, then lets it fall. His fingers twitch at his side and she knows what he seeks; a cigarette, one no longer there. “Let me explain, okay?”

She folds her arms over her chest and looks away from him, needs to look at anything _but_ him. Finds her gaze sliding over the bed and to the portrait frames sitting on the nightstand, at the memories she has made here; her arm thrown around Felix at the beach, Ava and Nat posing awkwardly, the photo Sanja gave her so long ago now, and even one of him, of course. 

They are together, in the social area — she can see the pool table behind them, Felix attempting to steal one of the balls without Nat noticing — and he is not smiling, no, but his arm is around her and his face is softer, guard lowered, and Cordelia feels her heart break all over again. Her anger is fading, slipping like water through her fingers, and she fights to keep it within her grasp.

“There’s nothing to explain, Mason. You made your point quite clear,” she sighs, grasping at her sleeve, desperate for something to hold on to.

His responding curse is dark, jagged and torn at the edges, and she curves in on herself. Wishes he would just leave, let her wallow in her own anger and misery — he has never had a problem leaving _before_ , and after everything, he owes her this much, this one little thing.

“I fucked up, okay? I thought, goddamnit I don’t know what I thought, I don’t know how to do this,” he says and for once, in all the time she has known him, it is his turn to sound unsure of himself. She dares to look back at him and finds him staring at her, hands clenched and an expression on his face that would, at any other moment, make her weak in the knees.

Right now, however, it only fuels the fire raging inside of her.

“You hurt me.”

That same spark of emotion in his eyes, but... no, it is only a trick of the light. “I — ” he starts, cuts himself off and swallows, reforming the words on his tongue before he continues, “look, I thought it would, I don’t know, fix the problem.”

She almost wants to laugh, but the sound gets caught in her throat and dies there. “We had a fight, so your idea to fix it was to go and what, find the nearest woman to try and get into bed with?”

“I wasn’t trying to get into bed with her!” His voice slices through the air, pounds in her ears, and all too suddenly, red begins to creep into the edge of her vision. 

“Oh? Well, it certainly looked that way to me.”

He takes another step forward, quicker this time, and she moves back just as quickly. Does not trust herself with him, knows all too well how easily he can disarm her with the right words and the right touches and no, _no_ , she will not allow it. She may be weak, yes, but she has strength enough for this.

“Look, just listen, I know I — ”

“No, Mason, you don’t know! And that’s the problem, isn’t it? You have no idea what seeing that did to me, how it made me feel! I was going to apologize, you know,” she says, words watery and wavering, the world starting to blur around her. “I realized that you were right, I hadn’t given any thought to how you would feel and that I hurt you, so I wanted to mend things between us, to tell you how sorry I was and — ”

The words taper off unevenly and there is a sob just on the tip of her tongue, but she forces it down, keeps going before she no longer can. “And then I saw you and her and _that_ ,” she is tugging at her sleeve now, pinching and pulling the fabric, shaking, “and don’t try to tell me what I saw, Mason. I saw you, and I _know_ you saw me. You knew _exactly_ what you were doing.”

“I wasn’t trying to sleep with her, for fuck’s sake! I was just trying to make you jealous, figured we could work the problem out that way, instead of — ”

“Of what? Talking? Is it really so bad, talking to me?”

“You wouldn’t say anything!” He shouts and she wants to flinch, his voice reverberating off the walls, but she holds her ground. “Five days, nearly a fucking week, and you haven’t said one goddamn word!”

How could she have, when just looking at him had been enough to remind her of her own stupidity? Her own foolish need to prove herself, never caring for what her actions might be doing to the people around her, hurting them. _I might have walls, sweetheart_ , he’d told her, words dripping in cold anger, _but at least people get the real me. With you, it’s anyone’s fucking guess_.

It had hurt, stung like salt in a wound, because the words rang true. Each one cut into her deeper than any blade, left her wounded, bleeding and lost. Silence had been easier, then — skirt around the issue, avoid it entirely, until she could find the right words to make it all better. 

She is supposed to be good with them, _words_ , and yet she flounders now.

“Talk to me, sweetheart.”

All it takes is those words and the final, tenuous tether keeping her from splintering is broken. It snaps with a resounding _crack_ in her mind and all at once, the fury inside of her explodes like a supernova, scorching and brilliant and terrible. Consumes her wholly and she lashes out, emotions roaring in her chest like some wild beast.

“You _left_! Just turned right around and walked out of my apartment! But now you want to talk, is that right? Fine, _sunshine_ , let’s talk,” she hisses and Mason actually winces at the vitriol lacing her tone; it is faint, easily missed, but oh she sees it and she relishes it. 

“All my life, people have left me. I try so hard to be what they want, to make them happy, but it never matters in the end. Mum chose work over me, her own daughter, I suppose because she couldn’t stand the sight of me after Dad died. And then Daphne, so quick to vanish when it was clear I wouldn’t give up my dreams for her,” her voice rises with each word, higher and higher, and she balls her hands into fists, “and Noah! Lovely Noah, too afraid to hurt me or even to tell me the truth, just up and leaves town without even saying goodbye. Or what about Bobby?”

Digs her nails into the palms of her hands, hard enough to bruise and the pain grounds her, keeps her focused, holds her together a little longer.

“He made me feel special, knew all the right words and I really, truly thought I loved him, thought he loved me, but that was a lie, wasn’t it?” And oh, how she hates that this wound is still raw, always like a freshly healed scar being ripped off every single time. “The minute I wasn’t there, the moment I tried to exist outside of him, he found someone else. Tossed me aside, like I meant _nothing_ , and I thought — hoped that, maybe, you would be different. That _this_ ,” she gestures between them, hands wild in their motions, and now the words are too much, scrambling around in her head like static, “would be different. That for once, someone would choose me.”

Something wet and hot splashes onto her hand, scorching like a brand, and she realizes in disgust that she is crying. _Again_. Reaches up and tries to stop, to rub away the tears, but all it does is make it worse. Opens her mouth to yell, to scream or say more, anything, but all she manages is a fractured sob. Cordelia buries her face in her hands and just lets go, the anger dying like a star, pain flooding back in.

Mason is on her then, arms encircling her waist, and she fights. Struggles against him, hands flying to his chest, shoulders, pushes and shoves and none of it works, all of it is futile. His grip is a vice and the harder she resists, the tighter he holds. She twists, tries to move, and he pulls her flush against him, back pressed into his chest. 

He rests his chin in the crook of her neck, warm breath drifting over her skin, and holds her. Lets her rage and weep and says nothing, only keeps her moored to reality, from shattering completely.

Strength failing, Cordelia falls, sags to her knees and takes him with her. Mason follows, long limbs awkwardly wrapping around her, and now she is trapped, caged in his embrace. Lowers her hands to his arms and digs her fingers into his jacket, nails scraping against the leather. Bows her head and says, “Let me go.”

“No.”

A fresh stream of tears hits her and she chokes out a cry, slamming her hands against his forearms.

“Why won’t you just leave me alone?!”

“Because I love you, goddamnit!”

The words hit her like an avalanche. Her heart stutters and stalls in her chest, lungs tight and burning as the breath is knocked right out of her. All at once, the world seems to slow to a stand-still and she can only wait, words like ash on her tongue.

“And I know I fucked up,” Mason continues, quiet and somber in a way he never is, his hold on her unrelenting. “I was pissed, at you and at me, at every goddamn thing, and I… I’m not used to this, to having someone like you, something I care about. I mean,” he huffs, the breath sending strands of hair billowing against her cheek, “I have the others, but… they’re not _you_.”

His scent envelops her — sandalwood and pine and _home_ — and she closes her eyes. Breathes in, and then out. Even now, despite all that has happened, it calms her; brings her a type of peace she can find nowhere else.

“So I’m sorry, okay? Sorry for fucking up and yelling and leaving, but goddamnit, you don’t know what it’s like watching you throw yourself into danger every fucking time,” his voice is a growl, next to her ear, and she lets it seep into her, settle in her bones. “You act like your life doesn’t matter, like _you_ don’t matter, and it… fuck, I want _you_ , not some damn martyr.”

And there it is. The whole reason for this, laid out in simple and concise terms.

Cordelia opens her eyes slowly, filled with unshed tears, and wipes them away. Grips his arm again and shifts in his hold, wanting — _needing_ — to see him. This time, he allows her to move and she turns, stares up at him and oh, the look on his face is nearly enough to break her all over again. She raises a hand and lays it against his cheek, traces a thumb over the cluster of freckles painted there; counts them, her favorite set of stars, and leans closer.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, unsteady and wobbling, and shakes her head. “I’m so sorry, Mason, I — ”

Lips crash into hers, soft despite their desperation, and it is so easy to fall into him. Bunches her fingers into the front of his shirt and tugs him closer still, pours all of herself into the kiss, hoping he will understand everything still left unspoken.

And he does, of course he does. He always understands her, even when she cannot — or will not — understand herself.

He breaks the kiss and tips forward, forehead pressing into her own, and a silence settles over them. Neither speak, content instead to listen to the quiet sounds of one another — heartbeats and breathing and _them_ , two souls bound together, interwoven in a way that cannot be severed, no matter how they might foolishly try. Mason’s hands settle at her waist, fingers curling under her ribs, and she lets the touch fill her. Allows it to take the place of both the pain and the fury, making her whole again.

“I’m not losing you,” he vows, eyes locked with her own, gray on hazel. “I won’t.”

It is her turn to kiss him now, gentle and light and a promise of her own. “You won’t,” she tells him and then, softer, “but you have to let me stand on my own. I promise to do better, to value myself, but you have to accept that I’m not going to sit on the sidelines and be helpless.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, and he nods. “I know you can handle yourself, Starlight,” he says and the nickname, so rarely used, sends her heart into a flutter, “but just promise me you’ll stop running right into packs of angry werewolves or gargoyles or whatever other shit we deal with, okay?”

“I’ll try,” she smiles and when he snorts, disbelieving, she laughs. “I promise, I will try.”

“All right, I’m gonna hold you to that, sweetheart,” he teases, eyes bright and shining, and she kisses him again. Coils an arm around his neck and anchors herself to him, so that she might never lose her way again. Mason makes a sound, deep and rumbling in the back of his throat, and she imprints it to memory; the sound of him, the taste and smell and feel, all of it, to keep with her forever.

He hums as he pulls back and now, there is no hiding the smile on his lips. “As nice as this make-up is turning out to be,” he begins, one of his hands sliding down to rest at her hip, “how about we get off this floor?”

“Good idea,” she agrees and Mason stands first, long limbs unfurling from around her, rising to his feet. Extends his hand and she takes it, allowing him to pull her up, slow and steady. Cordelia leans into him, hides her face in his shirt, and whispers, “I’m sorry.”

“Me too, Starlight.” Fingers press into the small of her back, charting circles over the freckles hidden by her shirt — maps he knows well, by this point, and she relaxes in his hold, a blanket of calm settling over her nerves. Distantly, she can feel a dull ache forming in her temples, but she ignores it for now, and focuses on him, on his moment.

Mason untangles himself from her reluctantly, slips his hand into her own and twines their fingers together. Spins on his heel and tugs her after him, making his way back to the door.

“Where are we going?”

“To get you something to eat,” he says casually, tossing her a look over his shoulder, that smile a smirk now. “I know how you get after you cry, sweetheart, and I’ve seen you with a headache,” he fakes a shudder, only to chuckle when she swats at his shoulder, “and I’ve had my fill of being on the receiving end of your anger for a lifetime.”

She sticks her tongue out at him. “Oh, hush,” but there is no further argument, no denying the truth of his words — she does get a _touch_ irritable, when she’s hungry or has a headache.

He laughs again, the one he saves only for her, and she smiles. They still have a lot of work to do, but that’s what a relationship is — hard work, ever evolving and learning and adapting. Sometimes it hurts, this she knows all too well, but as she follows him and basks in the easy way he holds himself with her, she thinks it is well worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and/or comments are appreciated! I'm also on [tumblr!](https://elmshore.tumblr.com/)


	14. a safe space (mason/nb detective)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Day 14: Throat) Mason ensures that Cordelia's day gets off to a great start.

She wakes to the feel of arms encircling her waist, hands splayed out atop her abdomen and long, nimble fingers charting patterns between the clusters of freckles sprinkled there. She wakes to the caress of lips, warm and soft, leaving a trail of kisses from the crook of her neck down to the shoulder and then across, over the nape of her neck. She wakes to the smell of sandalwood and pine and _him_ , enveloping her senses, more comforting than the blanket tucked around them.

She wakes not alone, and that is perhaps the most wondrous part of it all.

Cordelia hums, mouth curving into a wide smile, and stretches her legs, much as she can; they are entwined with his own, his thigh nestled between her own and he is flush against her, chest pressed into her back, molded to her as if he is trying to crawl inside of her, to make her body a home. As if he never wants to let her go.

Which is, of course, fine by her.

Those lips are at her ear now, his stubble scratching at her cheek, and when she feels teeth nibbling along the outer shell, she giggles, the sound bubbling out of her before she can stop it. “You’re more insistent than my alarm clock,” she teases, and behind her, he chuckles, the sound reverberating through her in a pleasant shiver.

One of his hands drifts upward, cups her breast and rolls the nipple between the pads of his fingers, drawing a moan from her that seems altogether too loud in the quiet of her room. Heat erupts like a flame sparking to life in her belly and spreads, gathers between her legs and in her core and he plants a kiss behind her ear.

“I’m a hell of a lot sexier too,” he says and his voice is a growl, coated in a hunger she has come to recognize, one that she returns wholly. 

His other hand slides down, slots itself between her legs, and those lean fingers are so close to where she wants them, where she _needs_ them to be, but they remain just out of reach. He curls them around her inner thigh, slick now with her arousal, and lets his nails ghost along the burning flesh, a dull but delicious ache forming inside of her.

Ever the tease, but she loves it.

“Mason,” she breathes and his name flows like satin over her tongue, softer and better than any prayer. Her eyes open, adjusting to the dark of the room, and she turns her head back as best she can, to look at him. Finds those beautiful gray eyes watching her, filled with a keen interest and something more, tender and vulnerable and her heart seizes in her chest, fluttering like a butterfly. “Hey,” her voice is a whisper, thick and leaden with emotion, and she knows he understands, that he can hear them all.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs and it is simple, quiet and unassuming, but the words are like music to her ears. Mason leans down, lips claiming her own, and the kiss is gentle, lazy almost, but it fuels the flames growing inside of her until they grow larger, fiery tendrils seeping into her veins and turning her blood molten.

She melts into the kiss, twisting just a little further back, and parts her lips for him, eagerly accepting his tongue. It slicks over her own like honey and she loses herself in the taste of him — earthy and rich, a hint of smoke buried underneath — and moans, the sound muffled and swallowed up by his mouth. 

And this, she thinks, has to be what heaven is; peace and contentment, waking up next to the one who carries your heart, the other half of your soul.

This is not the first time he has stayed, nor will it be the last she knows, but each time is special, and she treasures them all. His staying and the easy way he is with her now; no more walls or masks to hide behind, just the two of them together.

A finger brushes over her clit, featherlight, and she breaks the kiss, shuddering. He does it again, firmer this time, and she whines, a heady noise that seems to please him, if the smirk he now wears is any indication. Gives her nipple a tug and a gasp tumbles past her lips, hips jerking back against him. Below, Mason drags his finger down, between her wet folds and another whine escapes her, eyes slipping closed as that heat coils, knotting into a tight sensation, one she is _very_ familiar with. 

“You’re so wet,” Mason groans, lips inches from her own, and she vibrates with a fierce need, rolls her hips forward, desperate for more friction. “Did you dream about me, sweetheart? About having my fingers inside your cunt, fucking you until you’re a mess?”

“I don’t have to be dreaming to think about that,” she moans and this pulls a snarl from him, dark and primal, that sends a jolt of lust skittering down her spine and makes her toes curl. 

In a flash, they are moving and she is rolled onto her back, Mason hovering above her. His dark hair falls like a halo around his face and he stares down at her, looking ready to devour her, eyes for her and her alone. The hand at her breast is gone, braced now atop the pillow beside her head and his knees are bracketed on either side of her body, effectively trapping her beneath him.

Not that she’s looking to escape, of course.

Cordelia knows this is foolish, she has to be at work soon and she should be getting _out_ of bed right now, preparing for her day, but then another finger dips into her cunt and her mind goes blank, hazy and white and she forgets, quite suddenly, about anything _except_ him. Lifts her arms and reaches for him, hands grasping at his shoulders, nails digging into the tanned skin and she yanks him down.

Claims his mouth with her own swiftly, harshly, and the kiss is desperate, tongues warring for dominance, breath mingling, hot and wet over her cheeks. Mason growls and the sound rattles down her throat, settles in her chest, and he eases two fingers into her. Works them in up to the knuckle and spreads them, crooking up, and she falls out of the kiss, a cry tearing through her.

His mouth is back at her throat, driven by a need to taste her, to mark her. Each kiss is bruising, lips and teeth working in tandem to imprint himself onto her, visible reminders of his presence. “Mason,” she mewls, tangling a hand through those black locks, and he moans deeply against the base of her throat, the sound catching in her chest. Inside of her, those deft fingers catch just right and she arches, back curving toward him, and she tips her head back, mouth opening in a silent gasp.

“Tell me, sweetheart,” he purrs, words muffled in the hollow of her neck, and she tenses, anticipation dancing along her nerves, “do you want to come from my fingers or my cock?”

Her mind scrambles to find the ability to speak and when he rolls a thumb over her clit, all she can do is cry out wordlessly, her entire body buzzing with pleasure. “Tell me,” he demands, in a tone so rough it leaves her panting as she draws in a shuddering gulp of air.

“Talk to me,” he urges, licking a stripe along her pulse and further up, teeth nipping at her neck, “tell me what you want, sweetheart.”

“You know what I want,” she sighs and it is almost distant, the words smothered by the roar of blood in her ears, “you always know, Mason, _please_.”

This time, the nip is a bite and she gasps, a surge of pain flooding through her before it shifts, morphing into pleasure, and she turns her head, face pressing into the pillow. “No,” he growls, tongue lapping at the sore bruise, “I want to hear you say it, Starlight.”

And she is helpless in the face of his demand. “Fuck me,” she sighs and it is almost distant, the words smothered by the roar of blood in her ears, “I want to feel you inside of me.”

His fingers leave her, pulling out slowly and she feels empty, aching, and she huffs in protest, hips trying to follow his hand. “Good girl,” she hears him say and those words alone are almost enough to make her come right now, so very close to the edge of her pleasure. Mason pushes himself up, resting back on his haunches, and with both hands, spreads her legs open. Cool air rushes over her center and she feels dizzy, head spinning.

With a speed borne of equal parts experience and impatience, Mason leans over her and reaches for the nightstand, plucking a condom from inside the little drawer. He tears the square package open, discards the empty foil onto the floor, and rolls the condom over his length; usually, the task is hers, and she loathes being denied it, but in situations where time is of the essence, the job falls to him.

He is, after all, not the only one who likes to tease.

After he is done, Mason grabs her hips tight enough to bruise and tugs her down the bed, closer to him. She twists her hands into the sheets and lifts her legs, bends them at the knee and plants her feet firmly into the mattress, biting her lip as she waits, shaking. “Tell me again, sweetheart,” he snarls and with one hand still locking her into place, uses the other to take hold of his cock.

Drags the tip of it through her folds, taunting her with what he knows she wants, and she groans, tightening her grasp on the sheets. “Fuck me,” she pants, straining with each word, “please, Mason, fuck me.”

Finally, mercifully, he sinks into her and Cordelia throws her head back, adjusting to the feel of him inside of her. The sound that leaves her is wanton and filthy, echoes in the room around them, and Mason matches it with a thundering groan. He sets the pace from the beginning; there is no easing into it, no gentleness in the first few thrusts, to build them both into a rhythm.

That isn’t what either of them want right now, or even have time for, and they both know it.

His hips snap forward, harsh and relentless, and she hears him growl, one of his hands coming to rest atop her sternum, fingers splayed out wide. “You’re so fucking tight,” he mutters and already, sweat is forming on both of them, slicking their skin wet and she whines, clenching herself around his cock, earning another snarl. “Is this what you wanted, sweetheart? My cock buried inside this dripping cunt, fucking you until you can’t even walk?”

“Yes, please,” she gasps and now the flames inside of her are a wildfire, burning just beneath the skin, and she can barely keep still, body quivering as she reaches for him, hands pressing against his chest, unable to reach his shoulders. “You feel so good inside of me baby, fuck, don’t stop,” she pleads, mind a haze of static and lust and him, only him.

Mason snarls and tilts forward, thrusts never once wavering, that cock she craves pumping in and out of her cunt with a fierce purpose. “That’s it, sweetheart, I want to hear all of it,” he tells her, and she can feel his breath over her breasts, scorching and slick, “every filthy little thought in that pretty head of yours.”

She feels his other hand move, the one still curled at her hip, and when two fingers swirl around her clit, tracing heavy circles, she nearly shoots off the bed. Presses her legs against him, tight as she can, and lifts up, allowing him to bury into her deeper. 

“Harder, Mason, please,” she begs and as always, he gives her what she wants — rocks against her harshly, pulls out and then slams back in, sheathing himself to the hilt, and she cries. He does it again, then twice more, and each time is better than the last. “Yes, fuck, just — oh, right there,” she moans, fingers threading through the dark hair at his chest, “ _fuck_ , Mason, I want to feel you come inside of me,” she purrs and he stills above her, breath shallow.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, please,” and she knows it is a risk, even with the protective measures she takes on her own, but right now, none of it matters. All she wants is to feel him entirely, with no barrier to keep him from her.

He eases out of her with a quiet _pop_ and removes the condom, throwing it into the little waste bin she keeps beside the nightstand. Pauses, hesitation flickering across that gorgeous face, and then, he is back inside of her, and oh, _oh_ , this is so much better. They moan together, synchronous in their bliss, and each thrust is quicker than the previous, his pace unforgiving and adamant and everything she could ever want.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous, Starlight,” Mason breathes and when she dares to meet his gaze, the air rushes from her lungs and, for just a moment, she forgets how to breathe. His pupils are blown wide, gray eyes swallowed in the black, and there is no hiding the love there, the sheer adoration as he stares at her, soaks in the sight of her. “And all mine, isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

The hand on her chest moves and travels up, lazily plotting a course between her breasts and stops at her throat. Cordelia mewls, knowing what he is going to do next and waits, eagerly, for it. Fingers wrap around her neck, one at a time, and his grip is firm — not enough to impede her breathing, but just enough to send a rush of pleasure straight to her core — and she wets her lips, holding his gaze steadily.

He squeezes, hard enough to bruise, and she moans, any shame over this act long since abandoned.

It had, of course, been a shock to them both when it happened that first time. Mason hadn’t meant to grab hold of her neck, to hold on tight as he rode out his own climax, and she certainly hadn’t meant to react the way she did, coming apart all over again. And to be honest, she still cannot say just _why_ she enjoys it so much, only that she does and Mason, ever the giver, is happy to oblige.

“Say it,” he commands and she almost shatters, managing only barely to hold on at the last second. Mason rarely takes full control, prefers to let her dictate the pace and tone of their encounters, but he knows this is something she sometimes enjoys; this loss of control, to be fully submissive and at his mercy. 

She never needs to tell him _when_ she wants this, either — he just knows.

“I’m yours,” she answers, lets her hands coast down from his chest to his waist and holds on tight, fingers wrapping under his ribs, “I’m all yours, only yours.”

Under him, her hips move restlessly, desperate for more friction, seeking a release, and he smirks. Falls forward and kisses her bruisingly hard, takes her lower lip between his teeth and bites, hard enough to draw a bit of blood. He laps it up hungrily, body quaking from the taste, and when he pulls back, her mouth feels swollen, lips parted and she is panting, unable to catch her breath.

“Good girl,” he growls, lips at the corner of her mouth, “you’re mine,” he pauses, lets his cock slip out and then plunges back into her sharply, a wail ripping out of her, “and this cunt is mine, isn’t it? Always so tight and wet for me, aren’t you?”

Cordelia nods, tears stinging at the corners of her eyes, and rolls her hips against him, that tight sensation inside of her only growing, expanding, crawling through her like vines. “Yes, only for you,” she cries, and the hand at her throat tightens again, and oh, she is close now. Right on the edge of the cliff, ready to take the plunge, if only he will let her.

“Do you want to come for me, sweetheart?”

“Yes, please, yes,” she must sound pathetic, a begging mess of a woman, but she hardly cares — not when she can feel how close she is, pleasure brewing inside of her like a tempest. “Please, Mason, I can’t, I need — ”

Mason slams his hips into her once more, so hard the bed shakes, and the fingers still at her clit make another circle, and that is all it takes — she comes undone. Stars bloom across her vision, brilliant and blinding, and then everything is white, blank. Her body goes taut, shuddering, and she bows up, lifting off the bed. Whispers his name like a litany, the only word left to her in this moment, and her arms wind around him, fingers scrabbling for purchase at his back.

Through it all, he fucks her and his pace never falters, not once. She floats down from her high, feeling light and languid, and sinks into the mattress. His hand falls away from her neck, trails down her chest and across her stomach, then down, resting at her thigh.

Inside of her, his cock throbs and twitches and she knows he is not far behind; can see it on his face, brows drawn in tight and mouth open, eyes fluttering halfway closed. She rocks into him, tries to match his rhythm with her own, and Mason groans, fucking her as if it is all he knows, his whole purpose. Pulls his hand, slick with her arousal, away from her cunt and raises it to her lips.

She takes them into her mouth and it’s a little odd, tasting herself like this, but she finds that in a way, she sort of likes it. With each flick of her tongue over his fingers, Mason growls and now his thrusts are turning erratic, unsteady, and she sucks on the fingers one last time before letting them slip out, licking her lips. 

“Come on baby, you’re so close,” she encourages, and takes his face in her hands, forcing him to meet her gaze head-on, “come for me, love, I want to be full of you.”

He moans, loud and rumbling and broken. Breaks out of her hold and buries his face in the curve of her neck and, with one final thrust, Mason unravels completely. Jerks into her, hard, and holds himself there, tense and shaking. She hears her name, muttered over and over against her throat, and throws her arms around his neck, holds him close as he goes slack, pressing down atop her.

A new sensation is spreading through her, warm and strange and she whines, feeling full in a way she never has before. Is not sure yet if she likes it, only knows that she doesn’t dislike it, and lets her legs fall, spreading and tangling in the sheets.

For a moment, neither of them move and are content to simply bask in the afterglow, in the feel of one another. Then, slowly, Mason lifts himself up and braces a hand beside her, using it to support himself as he raises the other, thumb sweeping across her cheek. She leans into the touch, smiling, and covers the hand with her own.

“You okay there, sweetheart?” And gone is the roughness, the authority, replaced now with a soft tenderness that makes her heart swell.

“Perfect,” she whispers and raises up, brushing her lips against his in a chaste kiss, falling back into the pillows with a slight laugh, “though I think my legs are going to be shaking all day.”

He smirks and it reeks of smugness, but she allows him his pride. “Better stay in bed then,” he says and leans down, mouth drawn to her throat like a moth to a flame, “just to be safe.”

“I have work,” she protests and, with great reluctance, pushes him away. Turns her head and spares a glance at her clock, groaning. “And I’m going to be late, if I don’t get up now.”

She rolls onto her side and Mason slips out of her with another _pop_. Can feel him leaking out of her, slowly, and pulls her legs together, beginning to wriggle out from underneath him. Throws her legs over the side of the bed and sits up, before arms lock around her waist from behind.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he mumbles, trailing a path of wet kisses up and down her neck, over her shoulders, “you can miss one day.”

And she is tempted, it would be a lie to say otherwise, but she resists his siren call. “I already called out once this month on account of you,” she teases and feels him smirk against her shoulder, “and besides, I need a shower.”

Mason releases her slowly, hands lingering at her sides, and she feels him press a gentle kiss against her neck. “Fine,” he growls, her cunt aching at the sound, “but we’re not done, sweetheart. I haven’t nearly had my fill of you yet.”

“I look forward to it,” she purrs and twists around to face him, giving him one last passionate kiss before she stands, legs a bit wobbly, something sticky and warm dripping down her thighs. 

He lounges in bed while she showers, and watches her as she dresses, eyes following her movements intently, as if afraid to look away for even a moment. Even seems amused at her dismay over the absolute ruin he has left on her neck — marks and bruises litter the fair skin, dark and prominent, and the faint outline of his fingers, closed around her neck. 

“Look at this! Everyone in town is going to think I’ve been mauled,” she laments, fingers tracing one particularly large stain, the skin sore to the touch. It seems that her fae blood, while useful with actual wounds, is fairly worthless when it comes to hickeys left by a vampire.

“No they won’t,” he scoffs, arms behind his head as he lies propped against the mound of pillows, looking rather proud of his handiwork. “They’ll just know you’ve been well and thoroughly fucked, that’s all.”

And while the statement is true, Cordelia isn’t sure she wants _everyone_ to know that. 

“Maybe you’ll run into that reporter,” Mason muses and she rolls her eyes, stepping away from the vanity to face him, arms folded over her chest. “I’d love to see the look on his face, when he realizes just how much I fu — ”

“I’ll see you later, love,” she cuts him off, striding to the bed and leaning down to give him a quick kiss, one that has him leaning forward when she pulls away, seeking her as a flower does the sun. “And would you mind feeding Leo for me? I’ve got to rush.”

He snorts, but nods, settling back onto the bed. “Yeah, I’ll feed the furball.” And she knows he will, knows that despite his tone, he’s come to enjoy the cat and his presence. 

Unlikely friends, the pair of them, her vampire and her cat.

He won’t stay long, only until she is gone and he’s done as she’s asked, then he too will leave. But Cordelia knows that when she returns, he will be here, waiting for her. And the thought of that is enough to make her smile as she hurries from the room and through the apartment, pausing only to get Galileo a few pets.

Grabs a scarf from the rack near the door on her way out, quite sure that despite the summer heat, she’s going to need it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and/or comments are appreciated! I'm also on [tumblr!](https://elmshore.tumblr.com/)


	15. a late date (nate/female character)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Day 15: Feral) Nate is late for a dinner date with Yvette, but he has a good reason for it. (Note: Yvette is not a Detective, she is part of my other Detective, Cordelia's personal canon).

Yvette is not a woman easily disappointed.

It is a lesson she learned early in life, to never expect things — from people, especially — and it has served her well over the years. Many have called her cynical, or downright cold, for this approach; dubbed a sort of ‘glass half-empty’ way of looking at the world, but in the end, she hardly minds. A small price to pay, to avoid the misery of disappointment.

And yet, lately and without even her knowing it, she has been slipping in this regard. Has begun to hope for things, to get excited over possibilities still so nebulous and uncertain, even found herself _dreaming_ , of all things! 

So, here she stands, paying the price for her foolishness. 

Fresh from the shower, red hair swept into a towel, completely and utterly _disappointed_. Standing in her small kitchen, the remains of a cold and untouched dinner sitting neatly packaged in several plastic containers in her icebox, while she works her way through a pile of dishes and wonders just _how_ she got here.

Or, scratch that, she knows how she got here, and his name is Nate Sewell.

They were meant to be having dinner tonight, a little quality time after nearly two weeks spent tied up with their respective jobs, and she has been preparing for it all week. Bought the ingredients, cleaned her apartment from top to bottom, and hell, she even dug out the vintage bottle of _Chateau Latour_ — a rather expensive gift from a former colleague — she'd stashed away for two years.

But then the time came, clock striking the hour, and he never arrived.

She waited thirty minutes, and then started calling; tried him first, but of course, no response. Then Ava, who claimed he left earlier with every intention of seeing her, but who promised to try and reach him. Next she rang Cordelia, on the off-chance that _she_ might have heard from him, given their friendship, and nothing. Another promise of help, but little else.

Gave it an hour and a half, before she began to put the food away, but opted to wait just a little longer. By the two hour mark, however, she gave up and went to take a shower; exchanged her lovely new black dress for an old dark green faux fur robe and all the while cursing herself for being absolutely ridiculous.

A fork slips out of her grasp and clatters against the sink with a shrill metallic ring, pulling her quite suddenly out of her daze, body going tense. Chiding herself for what must be the fifth time this evening, she plucks it up and quickly finishes rinsing it off, then all but throws it into the drainer. Sighs, and grips the edge of the counter, fingers still wet and soapy, dripping to the floor below. 

“Get a hold of yourself,” she mutters, voice almost deafening in the silence of her home. “So what if he stood you up? You’re a grown woman, for god’s sake, you’ll get over it and have plenty of leftovers for the week ahead,” and for a split second, she almost believes herself, voice firm and confident.

Still, Yvette cannot help but to worry — Nate is many things, but he is _not_ the kind of man who would merely skip out on a date without letting her know ahead of time. Perhaps something happened, to delay him? Maybe the storm? Or Trappers? Scenarios play through her brain one after another, like a broken projector, and she shakes her head, trying to dispel the fog of worry swirling through her mind.

No, he is fine and it is something else holding him up, that’s all. She is meant to be angry with him, after all, not worried. 

_Be rational_ , the little voice in her head tells her, and she nods. Yes, there is no sense in letting fear or paranoia overwhelm her — even if something _had_ happened, there is little she can do from her current location, and besides, he is more than capable of handling himself. 

Under that sweet, gentle demeanor is strength, both of the body and the mind. He will be fine, and if she repeats it enough, then perhaps it might even become a truth.

She is only just reaching for the last plate, satisfied with the calm now settled over her, when a knock echoes through her apartment and she jumps, heart pounding against her ribs like some sort of caged animal. _So much for calm_ , she thinks and with shaking hands, grabs a small hand towel, drying her hands as she makes her way out of the kitchen and toward the front door.

Is halfway there when another knock, gentler this time, sounds and she frowns. 

“I’m coming,” she calls and throws the cloth over her shoulder. A part of her knows who it is, has become adept at sensing his presence even without the use of supernatural skills, and yet as she opens the door, she is nowhere near prepared for the sight that greets her.

Of course it is Nate on the other side, but he looks so very different. Possibly due to the fact that he is soaked through to the bone, clothes sticking to him and hair a mess, dripping all over the little welcome mat she put in-front of her door. And there, in his arms, wrapped in his jacket is… no, surely it can’t be…

A yowl, quiet and pitiful, rings out and hangs in the air between them.

“I take it that,” she says, pointing a finger toward the now squirming mass, “is the reason you’re so late?”

He at least has the decency to look ashamed, a sheepish smile curving along his lips. “Yes, I am terribly sorry for my tardiness, love,” he starts, taking a moment to adjust the puppy nestled in his arms, “but on the way, I happened across this poor thing and well, I couldn’t leave her out in this storm.”

As if on cue, the puppy manages to free herself — or, her head, at least — from the tangle of Nate’s jacket and Yvette is greeted with two large, chocolate brown eyes staring up at her. She _thinks_ the dog’s fur _might_ be a dark fawn, but due to the rain and mud covering the poor creature, it’s impossible to tell at the moment. 

She wants to be mad, truly she does, but she just… can’t. Not when she has two sets of warm brown eyes staring at her, hopeful and bright and she groans. Lifts a hand and pinches the bridge of her nose between the pads of her thumb and index finger. 

And really, should she even be surprised that _this_ is what held him up?

“You’re such a bleeding heart, Nate,” she sighs and then turns, gesturing for him to enter, “come on, you may as well come in.”

He beams at her and she tries, oh how she tries, to ignore the way her heart flutters at the sight. Quickly stomps down on the feeling as he strides forward, long legs carrying him inside and she shuts the door behind him, making sure to lock it.

“You are not the first to accuse me of being such,” Nate chuckles and fiddles with the makeshift puppy carrier, his smile widening when the little dog lunges upward and licks his cheek, wiggling wildly in his hold, “but thank you, darling, and again, I do apologize.”

“I suppose I can’t be too angry,” she admits and steps toward him, stretching out a hand to give the puppy a scratch behind one of her ears, “but, how did it take you two hours to get a dog off the street?”

He laughs, the sound smooth like honey, and she finds herself leaning closer, drawn almost like a magnet toward him. “She proved to be a rather slippery thing, and I had to earn her trust,” he explains, his eyes on her now and carrying such a fond expression it very nearly makes her heart stop, “but, in the end, I managed to win her over.”

“Not surprising,” Yvette muses, unable to contain a smile of her own when that rough tongue laps over her fingers, “you are a very charming man.”

“I’m pleased you think so, dearheart.”

She opts to move past the endearment, and the way it has her cheeks flushing, and clears her throat. “So, what do you plan to do with her?”

Nate hums and she can tell from the way he shifts, from one foot to another, and hunches forward, that he is suddenly nervous. “Ah, yes, well,” he begins, wrestling one arm free and bringing it up, hand rubbing at the back of his neck, “you see, I’m not entirely sure?”

“You plucked a dog off the street and never once considered a plan for _after_?”

“I admit, I was perhaps a bit rash in my decision,” Nate says, and standing there, soaking wet, he looks more like a young boy caught trying to sneak an animal into the house than an all-powerful vampire. “The problem is, of course, that much as I would like to, I cannot keep her at the Warehouse.”

“Why not?” She imagines Farah would be _thrilled_ to have a dog around the place and the mental image of the younger vampire playing with the puppy is enough to make her smile widen. “Surely there’s enough space?”

Nate worries his bottom lip between his teeth and while normally such an act would inspire a wave of heat in her, right now, it only sends a prickle of dread down her spine. “Ava, I am afraid that our dear Commanding Agent will simply not allow it.”

“Have you asked her?”

“Love, I have known her for centuries,” he muses, amusement clear in his tone, “there is no need to ask, I can assume the answer.”

That is more than fair, she supposes — after all, with a friendship as long as theirs, it seems only fitting that they would learn how to predict one another's reactions. And perhaps the Agency has a rule against pets? If so, then it would stand to reason that Ava would be opposed to the idea, given her love of following protocols.

Or maybe she simply dislikes dogs? Her reaction whenever Unit Alpha is brought up certainly lends credence to that theory. 

But there is something about the way he watches her now, ochre eyes appearing to glow in the dim light of her apartment, that makes her tense; she knows, deep down, what he is going to ask, and she is not sure if she has the strength to deny him.

“I know it is sudden, and a lot,” he starts, and his voice, normally so very calm, seems rushed now, “but, I had hoped that she could stay here, only until I can find a permanent home for her of course!”

Ah, and there it is.

Every logical bone in her body screams at her to reject his request, to apologize and say that no, she simply cannot keep a puppy in her apartment meant for one. That pets are only allowed with an additional deposit, one she has not paid. And of course there is the fact that her home is not suitable for a dog, especially one so young; she would need to proof it, to ensure not only the puppy’s safety, but the safety of her items.

So yes, it is a terrible idea all around and one she absolutely cannot agree too.

But Nate has a way of overriding every logical bone in her body, in making her throw caution to the wind and take risks she would, under any other circumstances, avoid. Which is why despite the voice in her head telling her no, she finds herself nodding.

“Fine,” she says and before he can respond, throws a hand up, stopping him, “but only until you can find her a real home, I am not adopting a dog!”

“Of course, love,” he grins and swoops down, kissing her so sweetly it leaves her floating, a pleasant ripple of longing washing over her. 

As he pulls away, lips lingering a second longer, she huffs and folds her arms across her chest. “We’ll take her to the vet tomorrow,” she states, and jabs a finger into his chest, “and you, sir, will be giving her a bath. She’s not roaming my apartment covered in mud, and neither are you.”

Nate dips into a deep bow, the puppy meanwhile doing her best to escape his hold, tail poking out of the jacket and wagging frantically. “Of course, I would hate to be the cause of a mess in your home.”

And he makes good on his word, heading off for the bathroom to see that the both of them are cleaned up. While he showers, opting to simply bathe the dog along with himself for ease, she finds a spare set of his clothes — he has left a few outfits here, over their time together, and she tries not to think about the way that makes her feel, contentment skittering through her and leaving her altogether too hot — and lays them in the bathroom for him, getting rid of the towel atop her head in the process. He thanks her, voice muffled behind the glass pane of her shower, and a loud yip follows.

“You’re welcome,” she tells them both, and leaves them to finish, heading back into the kitchen. Sets herself to the task of fixing something that might help warm him up, in addition to the hot water.

Yvette is just finishing up when he returns, dressed in a pair of dark green loose fitting sweatpants and a plain, gray shirt, hair damp and slicked back, feet bare and looking so terribly at home that it makes her heart ache, in a way she thinks she could get used to. 

Behind him, the little puppy trots along and now, properly cleaned, her dark yellow coat seems to shine, looking soft to the touch. Her tail is still moving at a constant pace and she lets out a happy bark, darting away from Nate and toward Yvette, who giggles. 

“I suppose you feel better now, do you?” It is directed at them both, even if only one can respond properly.

“Much,” Nate answers and bends down, giving her yet another delightful kiss, and she can smell her shampoo on him, the rosewater complimenting his natural scent, clove and vetiver. “Perhaps next time you might join us?” His hand snakes around her waist, presses against her lower back, and little eruptions of electricity dance along her skin like shockwaves.

Below, the puppy barks once more and just like that, the moment is gone, fizzling out as she inserts herself between them, tail slapping against their legs. “Ah, I was wondering when the feral side of her might show,” Yvette teases, earning herself another excited yip.

“Belle,” Nate scolds, squatting down to place a hand atop the dog’s head, “there is no need to be so impatient, it’s rude.”

She makes a sound, somewhere between a laugh and a groan, as she lays a hand against her cheek. “You already named her? Nate, you shouldn’t, it’s only going to make saying goodbye all that much harder,” she says, and he looks up at her, expression soft.

“I know,” he whispers, and he sounds so small, so sad, that it tugs at her, “but everyone deserves a name, no matter how long they may be in your lives.”

There is a story there, she knows it, but she chooses not to pursue it, and simply nods. “Well, I found her something to eat, so perhaps that will calm her down,” she turns and reaches for the plate of turkey, scraps not used in the meal, and leads Belle over to the table, setting it down beside the wall. In a flash, the puppy is there, and she heads back toward Nate, now standing again. “And for us,” she proclaims, grabbing the two steaming mugs from the counter, “a bit of hot chocolate.”

He grins, all traces of sadness chased from his eyes as he takes the mug, cupping it protectively in his hands. “Have I told you lately, how much I adore you?”

“Yes, but,” she laughs and breezes past him, toward the living room, “I could stand to hear it a bit more.”

A familiar presence falls into step beside her and an arm tucks around her middle, pulling her into his side, lips pressing a kiss into her almost dry hair. “Then I shall make sure to tell you every day, so that you might never forget it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and/or comments are appreciated! I'm also on [tumblr!](https://elmshore.tumblr.com/)


	16. an echo of emotion (luna watson)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Day 16: Grief) A ghost is an emotion, one that lingers, and all Luna wants to do is sleep in her own bed. 
> 
> (Note: Luna is the child of my detective, Cordelia, and Mason)

Luna is three, when the Whispering Lady comes to her.

The house is dark, quiet and so very still, and everyone is asleep in their beds. She should be too, but she can’t, because there is a lady standing at the foot of her bed.

She is blurry around the edges, shadowy and out of focus, and it’s hard to look at her for too long — if Luna tries, her eyes begin to water and sting and she has to rub them, until little stars are dancing in her vision. Which is funny, because the Lady has no eyes of her own, only two bright leaking orbs of light, orange and glowing and they make Luna feel itchy, like the time she picked up a leaf she shouldn’t have and Papa had to take her to see Mr. Elidor, because her hand turned splotchy and red.

And she should be scared, she knows this; the Lady is a stranger, and Mama always warns her not to trust strangers, but Luna isn’t afraid of her. Not even with her weird eyes or her body that flickers like a candle flame, because she isn’t scary, she’s just… _sad_.

Every night she comes, and all she ever does is stand there, at the end of Luna’s bed, whispering. Her voice reminds Luna of static, distorted and garbled, and it shakes, like the Lady is crying. She never knows what the Lady is saying, doesn’t really know the language — thinks she’s _maybe_ heard Mama say it, before, to Papa — and she isn’t even sure if the Lady is talking _to_ her, but she listens anyway.

Because, well, she just seems so sad, and Luna doesn’t want her to be.

So, she names her, since she doesn’t have a name. Calls her the Whispering Lady, which she thinks is oh so clever, and considers her a friend. All is well, until suddenly, it isn’t.

Until the night, when she is four, and Lyra wakes up from one of her weird dreams, the ones that always make her say odd things. Until she realizes that Lyra can’t see the Whispering Lady and Luna doesn’t understand how, because _she’s right there!_ and then she is crying, red faced and little fists pounding on the bed, and then Lyra is crying, too. She screams at her twin, to stop lying, and Lyra only cries harder. 

Mama comes then, flicking on the lights, and the Whispering Lady runs away, to hide in the closet.

No one believes her — not Mama, not Papa, and not even Lyra, who always believes her — and she stops seeing the Whispering Lady as her friend.

When she comes again the next night, Luna throws the blankets over her head and covers her ears hard as she can.

* * *

She turns five, an important age Mama tells her, and meets the Faceless Boy.

Except, he’s not _really_ faceless — or, well, she doesn’t think he is, anyway — it’s only, he never turns around so she can say for sure. All she ever sees of him is the back of his head, with his short brown hair, and she only knows he’s a boy because she asked, and he nodded. She does try to get a look at his face, every now and again, but never manages it.

When she tries, all she hears is this awful buzzing sound in her head, like too many flies all at once, and she feels sick, like the time she ate too many Moon Pies — and now Papa calls her that, Moon Pie, and she hates it, but it’s okay because it’s Papa — and she threw up so much she cried.

If she tries _too_ hard, the Boy gets really angry and runs away, crawling back under her bed where he lives, and she feels ever so bad, so she stops.

He likes to play with their toys, the Boy, but his favorite is the dollhouse, the one Aunt Nat bought for them. It’s huge, filled with little rooms all decorated differently, like an actual house, and Lyra loves it, can play with it for hours; Luna doesn’t, because she thinks dolls are dumb and creepy, but the Boy seems to enjoy them too. Most nights, she wakes to find him at the dollhouse, hunched over and moving the dolls around, acting out pretend scenes with them.

She joins him, on those nights, and so long as she doesn’t try to look at his face, he plays with her. 

Luna tells him all about her days, at school and what she’s learned, and he listens. The Boy never talks back, never says a word, but that’s okay because she doesn’t really need him to. She just needs him to listen, since no one else listens to her anymore — not even Lyra, who always _used_ to listen to her, before the Whispering Lady ruined everything.

And she hopes that maybe, if she’s lucky, he will be her friend. Because she likes him, he doesn’t call her a liar or make fun of her, and whenever he comes to play, the Whispering Lady stays in the closet.

But, he isn’t really her friend.

One night, she tells him about Mama, and the baby growing inside of her belly. How she hopes it will be a boy, so she can have a little brother, and he stops playing. Drops the dolls, grabs her wrist, and finally, for the first time, he looks at her.

And she screams, because his face is all wrong — melting and blackened and wrong, wrong, _wrong_.

This time, it is Papa who comes rushing in, who finds her on the floor screaming and crying and the Boy runs away, scurries back under her bed, and no one believes her. Not Papa, not Mama, and not even Lyra. Papa picks her up, tells her she’s got nothing to be scared of, and tucks her back into bed, but she knows it’s real.

Mama has the boy Luna hoped for — names him Orion, after the stars and some hunter — but she gets so very sick and has to stay in the hospital for what feels like forever and Papa is so very sad, won’t leave her side, not once. Gram-Gram stays with them instead, but she’s sad too; cries in the kitchen, when she thinks they aren’t looking, and talks to God, asks him _please don’t take her, not yet, not now_ even though he never says anything back. Luna tries to tell her it’s the Faceless Boy’s fault, she doesn’t know how just that it is, but Gram-Gram just smiles at her and tells her to go play.

A week after Mama and Orion come home, the Faceless boy comes back, but Luna never plays with him again.

* * *

Nine comes and is nearly gone, her birthday only a few weeks away, when the Staring Man arrives.

But he’s different from the others, from the Whispering Lady who now haunts her closet or the Faceless Boy who keeps creeping out from under her bed to play with Lyra’s dolls, because the Staring Man isn’t in their room at all. He only stays downstairs, right in-front of the window at the back of the dining room, and just… stares out into the woods behind their house.

He is different too because now, Lyra believes her.

She can’t see them, not like Luna does. Instead, she _dreams_ of them — of the Whispering Lady and her strange language, crying as she holds a pillow. Of the Faceless Boy and his terrible face, in bed and in so much pain. 

And now, she dreams of the Staring Man, with his funny little round hat and his thick dark coat, the wolf head cane in his hands, and how sad he is, always looking at the trees.

Luna sees them, Lyra dreams them, and finally, she isn’t alone in this anymore.

Every night now, she stays downstairs to sleep. Sneaks out of her room, quiet as she can, after Lyra falls asleep and makes herself comfortable on the big, soft couch in the den, the one covered in cozy blankets and thick pillows. Mama keeps telling her that she needs to stay in her own bed, and Papa keeps saying that there’s nothing scary in her room — _except for the mess you two make_ , he grumbles — but they don’t know.

They don’t see the Boy with the really wrong, bad face, or the Lady who whispers and cries.

So, even though it gets her into trouble, and even though every morning she wakes back in her bed, carried there by Papa, she keeps doing it. Because it’s better than being in the room that is starting to become far too crowded.

That is how Luna sees him, the first time. She tiptoes her way down the stairs and toward the kitchen, to get a glass of juice before curling up on the sofa. Feels a chill in the air, making her shiver all the way down to her toes and up to the top of her head, and she follows it, to the dining room where he is standing and staring. And just like all the times before, even though she knows better, she isn’t scared of him — he never even looks at her, just watches the trees outside the window and holds his cane tightly and is like a rock, unmoving.

He has a routine, one he never breaks, and she watches him, curious. Learns that he always shows up at half past midnight, on the dot, and lets himself in through the kitchen door. Closes it, which she thinks is polite, and then he walks to the dining room, cane tapping against the floor the whole way, and heads for the window at the back. Lifts it open, just a little, and stands there, eyes on the treeline. Sometimes, she thinks she hears crying, but she can’t tell if it’s inside or outside and it’s so faint, hard to make out.

For about a week, she tries to stay up, to see if he leaves the same way, but she never makes it more than an hour before she falls asleep and by the morning, he is gone — just like the rest of them.

Luna finds him interesting, for a little while. She stands next to him and tries to get his attention, tugs at his jacket or taps on his cane, but it never works. And after a while, she loses interest in him entirely. He’s so remarkably boring, with his plain clothes and plain old man face and, since he won’t even talk to her, she leaves him alone.

Even sort of likes him, because he’s peaceful — like a piece of furniture, a part of the house — and thinks he’d make a great friend, since he never bothers her. Only, he never closes the window when he leaves and soon, she’s the one being blamed for it.

Of course, Mama never believes her when she tries to say it’s the Staring Man doing it, and Papa just says she needs to stop this, that she’s too old to be afraid of monsters that aren’t there. And Luna argues, then argues more, until she’s out of breath and crying, but they won’t listen to her, no matter what they never do.

She gives up, then. Keeps going downstairs, because it’s the only place she can sleep, but doesn’t talk about _them_ anymore — not the Whispering Lady or the Faceless Boy or even the Staring Man, who she hates now because he’s gone and made her parents mad at her. Wonders, miserably, if this will be her life forever and ever now; seeing these weird people, at home and at school and everywhere else, the people no one else can see, who only seem to notice _her_.

That is, until one night, when everything changes.

Mama comes downstairs to find her, Papa with her, and they wake her up on the couch. Tell her _this has to stop, you should be in your own bed_ and she isn’t listening, because why should she? They never listen to her. And then Papa is picking her up, off the cushions and into his arms, when they hear it.

A door, being open and shut. The light _tip-tap_ of a cane on the hardwood floor. And then the window, creaking up, a chill blowing in through the crack. Mama looks at Papa, who stares at the window, and then they both look at her, and Luna smiles, because now they believe her, she just knows it. 

That night, everyone sleeps in their room — she and Lyra curled up beside Papa, little Ori in Mama’s arms, and it’s nice, except now there’s a different whispering; Mama and Papa, talking back and forth, and Luna tries to make out what they’re saying, but it’s hard and she just goes to sleep, Papa’s arm tucked around her.

When morning comes, Mama has them pack some bags and they all leave the house, to stay with Auntie Nat and Auntie Ava. Papa seems angry, but not at them — just angry, in that way he gets sometimes, Uncle Felix calls it _grumpy_ and it makes her giggle — and Mama is nervous, on the phone all the time, talking to different people, and Luna finds that she doesn’t hate the Staring Man anymore.

Because he made everyone believe her.

* * *

Luna is ten — practically a grown-up now, Papa told her — when she meets Miss Ambroise.

Miss Ambroise is very pretty; taller than Mama, but shorter than Papa, and always wears fancy clothes, with heels that _click-clack_ on the marble floors. Her hair looks like gold, long and wavy, and she smells nice, like flowers and a sweet spice Mama always puts in their hot chocolate. But her eyes are too-blue, almost black, and she sometimes has this weird little half-smile that makes Luna feel like Miss Ambroise always knows what she’s thinking, even if she doesn’t say it.

Like Miss Ambroise always knows a secret, but won’t ever say what it is.

She seems nice though, for being a demon, and never talks to her like she’s just a kid, but she feels… strange. Mama likes her, but Papa doesn’t — she knows this because every time he sees her, he looks mad and growls a whole lot — and so Luna isn’t sure if she should like her or not, either.

But, like her or not, Luna has to be here. Sitting in this big office, filled with warm light and warmer colors, reds and golds and dark wood, nestled into a comfy chair, all plush cushions and soft fabric. Has to be here because now, everyone believes her, and they’re scared. They all say they aren’t; Mama tells her this is just to help her, and Papa doesn’t say anything at all, but she knows.

They’re afraid. Of her, or of the strange people, she isn’t sure. Whichever it is, the result is the same — they want her to talk to Miss Ambroise, because she can help.

“Tell me, Luna,” Miss Ambroise says, in that terribly soft voice of hers, “do you know what a ghost is?”

Luna scoffs at the question, because that’s what Papa does when someone asks him a question he doesn’t like, and she slouches further into the chair, hands shoved into her pockets. “They’re dead people,” she mutters and lets her feet swing, high above the carpeted floor below. She _knows_ what ghosts are — has seen them in movies and at Halloween, little white figures who float and pop out of walls to say _boo_.

Miss Ambroise smiles, that odd little sort-of smile, and hums, tapping her finger against the arm of her own chair; it’s leather, dark and shiny, high-backed and huge, swallows her up. “I suppose that is true, yes,” she laughs and it sounds distant, as if she doesn’t find anything funny at all, “but a ghost is more than that, Luna.”

“What do you mean?” And she’s glad Lyra isn’t here, because Lyra is still a baby and _hates_ ghosts.

“A ghost is… well, they’re an echo,” Miss Ambroise tells her before she leans forward, one leg crossed neatly over the other, like a proper lady. “These figures you see, they’re echoes, Luna.”

She frowns and shakes her head, a bit of red hair falling out of her ponytail. “An echo is a sound, people can’t be echoes.” They’ve studied sound and how it works in school, so Luna knows what an echo is.

But, Miss Ambroise just keeps on smiling and those too-blue eyes sparkle, picking Luna apart. “You’re right, an echo is a sound,” she agrees, and then she says something far more confusing, “but people _can_ be echoes, or rather, they can leave behind echoes. Little pieces of themselves that they brand on the world, memories that remain, even after they’re gone.”

“How can a person be an echo and a memory?”

“They aren’t people anymore, Luna, not like you or me,” Miss Ambroise tells her, and now she sounds sad, almost lonely, and it makes Luna feel restless, like she can’t sit still. “A soul is different from a body, hard to destroy and so, sometimes, it lingers. Gets stuck, left behind and becomes an imprint, an echo of the person it once was.”

Luna frowns and slinks down even more into the chair, staring up at the ceiling, glaring at the odd designs in the tiles, the ones that seem to stare back at her. “They’re not all scary,” she admits, because while some of them are — like the Boy and his face, or the woman who always stands in the back corner of the market Mama likes to shop at, with her missing eyes and red-stained hands — a lot of them are, well, “they just feel sad.”

“A ghost is like grief,” Miss Ambroise says, and Luna can hear the leather creak, as she leans back into her chair, “and grief is a powerful emotion, not one easily described or dealt with. Sometimes it can be crying, and other times, it can be a terrible rage, or it is an emptiness, a hollow pit that we feel we may never crawl out of. These spirits you see, Luna, the echoes, do you know what binds them here?”

She shakes her head, and waits. 

“Emotion. It is a powerful thing, and when these people die, sometimes, they feel things so much, that they cannot let go, and so, they remain.”

“And become echoes?”

“Yes,” Miss Ambroise says, and Luna tears her eyes away from the ceiling, to look back at her, “they are an echo of emotion, a memory of a feeling that has been left behind, unable to find peace.”

Luna groans and surges forward, hands falling out of her pockets as she grips the seat of the chair. “But why can I see them? I don’t want to!”

Miss Ambroise nods, and that smile is gone now, replaced with a look Luna knows — pity. “You have a gift, though you may see it as a burden, and you are special,” she explains, uncrossing her legs as she too moves forward. “You are like a beacon, Luna, a lighthouse of sorts, that draws these spirits in, because you can see them, and they crave that. They _want_ to be seen, even if they don’t know it.”

“Can I stop seeing them?” She doesn’t want to be special, not like this.

“I can help you block them out,” Miss Ambroise assures, but then quickly adds, “it will not banish them, and I cannot promise that it will always work, but it will give you some peace. Is that what you want?”

“Yes!” 

That smile is back, but it’s different this time — softer, kinder even — and Luna feels like maybe, everything will be okay now.

Before they leave, Miss Ambroise does something to the crystal necklace that Papa gave her, makes it glow for a few seconds and it is warm, almost burning, when she holds it in her hand. She is told to never take it off and that as long as she wears it, the ghosts will leave her alone. Most of them, anyway, Miss Ambroise keeps saying that over and over.

And she still doesn’t understand it all, not fully — not the thing about echoes or grief or any of it — but what she does know is that when they go home, the house is empty and when night comes, she can finally sleep in her own bed again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and/or comments are appreciated! I'm also on [tumblr!](https://elmshore.tumblr.com/)


	17. last of us (mason/nb detective)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Day 17: AU) Cordelia needs to get away from a passing horde, and meets a new chance at happiness in the process.

What a shame, that her luck would choose _now_ to run out, when she is so very close to her destination. And today had been going so well, too.

Cordelia draws in a deep breath and closes her eyes, lets it sit for a second longer, then exhales, quiet as she can. Tries to calm her heart, still beating like a drum against her ribs, and presses herself flat against the damp brick wall, fingers curled tightly around the lower limb of her bow. Just behind her, off to the right, she can hear them; the familiar clicks and shrieks, and low moans of pain.

A horde. She has only dealt with one of them before, about a year or so ago, but this is different; this time, she is alone, and the only person she has to rely on is herself.

She opens her eyes and takes a small, half-step to the right. Cranes her head around the side of the building, and toward the mass of infected crowding the street ahead. They have yet to move — the Clickers are merely stationary, with only the Runners stumbling back and forth, hunched over — and she frowns, quickly ducking back into her makeshift hiding spot. Trying to go through them would be suicide; she has only her bow and two pistols, maybe a single Molotov if she wants to risk precious supplies.

No, her only options are to either wait them out or try and go around.

Waiting is likely the safest bet, but she doubts the creatures are in any hurry to move and while she is hidden for now, all it will take is one shambling down the tiny alleyway to blow her cover and force her into a fight. Which is, of course, the _last_ thing she wants right now — or ever, really.

Opting to cut through a building and attempt to go around could work, but it also carries a whole new set of risks; first, she needs to find a way into one of the two buildings, and second, she has absolutely no idea what might be lurking in either one. _Hopefully not another horde_ , she muses and, shuddering at the thought, pushes away from the wall, careful to keep her movements as silent as possible.

Daring a look up, she frowns — already the sun is beginning to set, the blue sky now dyed a dazzling array of dusty orange and pale pink, the first few stars visible. It would be beautiful, were she anywhere else; right now, all it means is she needs to make a decision, and fast.

Turns, facing the building directly in-front of her now, and eyes the plain, gray door on the far right end of it. Everything in her says it will be locked — most doors seem to be, ironically enough — but, she files it away. She lets her gaze slide to the other building, the one on her left, and from this angle, she can spy a half-broken window, but no door. 

Good, two possible entry points are better than no entry points at all.

 _The door first_ , she thinks, and heads for it, steps careful and light. Reaches it and, shifting the bow to one hand, tries the push bar with her other. Gives it a shove and, of course, nothing — locked, just as she suspected it would be. Funny how with the world ending around them, everyone had time to lock their doors.

With a heavy sigh, she steps away from the door and makes her way toward the other building. Pauses, to check the alleyway for any stragglers, and then darts across the small gap, heart racing the whole way. Three more steps, and she is at the window. More than large enough for her to fit, though she will need to be mindful of the remaining glass; it looks like whoever broke it used a brick, or some other blunt object. 

There is also a bit of dried blood, both on the ground beneath the window and on the sill, but she decides to pay it no mind for now. Blood is a common sight, after all.

 _At least it saves me the trouble_ , she sighs and carefully, slings the bow over her shoulder — not an ideal carrying method, but it will work for the moment — before digging into her jacket pocket and digging out the flashlight stored there. Clicks it on and leans forward, shining it through the opening.

From what she can tell, the room is small — used for storage, she guesses, due to the clutter — but empty. And, best of all: no spores in sight, always a plus these days. 

Satisfied, she clicks the flashlight off and returns it to her pocket, then squats, sliding her backpack off. Unzips it, slow and quiet, and rummages inside, fingers digging through supplies and rations and other assorted items until, finally, she feels the familiar sensation of worn leather.

Pulls out a pair of aged, dark brown gloves — a gift, from a woman in a caravan she used to travel with — and quickly slides them on, wiggling her fingers to ensure a snug fit. Better to have a bit of protection when dealing with broken glass than none at all. Done, she rezips the bag and throws it back over her shoulder, careful not to jostle the bow too much; she just restrung it, damaging it now is out of the question.

Carefully, she grips the sill and climbs inside; bumps her head on the way in and bites down on her lip, to keep from cursing. The room is dark and smells of dust, but it is safe and dry and right now, that is all she needs. On the far side is a door but she ignores it for now; focuses instead on brushing the little bits of glass from her gloves and then starts looking for something to cover the window with.

Discovers yet more blood, near the bottom of the window and then closer to the door, and can hear little alarms in her head, but pushes past them. She is here now, and there is no sense in turning back.

In the end, she settles on an old tarp covering a few boxes and, with the help of some duct tape, she fashions a makeshift curtain. Not ironclad by any means, but it will keep any roaming infected from being able to see directly inside and that will be enough, for a night at least.

“Excellent work, Lia,” she whispers, awarding herself a small pat on the back for such clever thinking and then, sets her sights on the door. Slips the bow from her shoulder, holding it firm, and moves closer. Tries the handle, finds it unlocked, and after another deep breath, cracks it open. Leans in and just listens, for the tell-tale signs of infected. 

Or people, which would perhaps be _worse_ right now.

When she hears nothing, Cordelia steels herself and inches the door open wider, enough for her to peek her head out. The store, it turns out, is a bookshop; a ruin now, shelves overturned and books strewn about, but the windows at the front are boarded up and the door, from what she can see of it, looks to be closed and in one piece.

A cursory glance reveals no signs of infected wandering about, and she steps out — leaves the door open behind her, just in case she needs to run back in and barricade herself. Just like the previous room, the shop smells of dust; age and rot, left here and forgotten, abandoned to time. 

She wonders what this place might have been like, before the outbreak; did people come and read here? Curl up with a book and get lost for hours? It fills her with a nostalgia she cannot explain; after all, she had been born the same year the outbreak occurred, so her only memories are of a world filled with death and danger. And yet, when she finds herself in places like this, where signs of a life _before_ are so visible, she finds herself… longing, for a time she never knew.

 _Don’t be foolish_ , her mind hisses and she quickly shakes those thoughts away, bundles them up in a blanket and rolls them into a corner, out of sight. Now is not the time for such things — she _should_ be looking for any supplies, while she can.

Looks down, then, and finds the trail of blood continues in here as well; toward the destroyed aisles, veering off to a part of the store she cannot see from here. Hopes, with every ounce of her being, that someone did not climb in here and die; or worse, turn. 

Cordelia decides to follow the trail, through the aisles and scans the shelves along the way, for any useful items. Finds a few scraps of cloth and one roll of duct tape, but little else — hardly surprising, but disappointing all the same. Tucks what she finds into her pack and continues on, still following the blood, nearing the large front desk when she hears it.

Faint, barely there, but deafening as thunder in the silence of the store.

A cough, dry and low. It sends a prickle of fear shivering down her spine and she goes stock still, blood roaring in her ears. Wets her lips and reaches for one of the arrows nestled in her back — a poor substitute for a quiver, but the best she could do on short notice — and nocks one, fingers sure and steady. 

Three steps and she is around the counter, bow drawn, and she finds the source of the blood. A man sits there, legs spread and gray shirt coated in blood; the red liquid stains his hands and jeans, dried and dark. His arm is outstretched, pistol in hand and aiming straight for her, but from the way he shakes, she can tell even this act is near impossible for him.

He seems to realize it too, because after a few seconds, he scoffs and lowers the arm, dropping the small gun to the floor beside him. “Fucking great,” he mutters, and his voice is rough, strained likely from either his wound or disuse, or perhaps both. “You gonna shoot that thing or not?”

“Depends on you,” she replies, keeping her tone low and tips her head toward the gun he just dropped, “slide that over here, please.”

“It’s empty.”

“I don’t care.”

The man rolls his eyes but does as she asks, sending the gun her way and she stops it with her foot, then kicks it behind her, far out of his reach. “Any other weapons?” She knows the drill, knows the questions and precautions; so many rules, when dealing with humans.

“Nope, assholes took all of’em,” he responds and even from here, she can see just how difficult it is, just to get the words out. His left hand is pressed firmly against his right side and he chuckles, a mirthless sound. “I only found that one on the way here, wasted the only bullet it had trying to shoot a fucking Runner.”

“Are you bitten?” The most important question, the one that determines if she shoots him now or maybe not at all.

He looks at her, with eyes the color of a clear winter sky, and says nothing; instead, his hand moves and he lifts his shirt, enough for her to see the wound. A bullet hole, not a bite, and she relaxes, if only a little. 

“Same assholes who took my weapons and the rest of my shit, they left me with this,” he tells her and lets the shirt fall, once again applying pressure to the injury. “And before you ask, ‘cause I can tell you’re going to, yes, I am alone.”

She had been about to ask that, actually. 

“What happened to you?” 

“Got jumped while looking for supplies,” he says only for another cough to rattle out of him and he curses, breath turning shallow before he grits his teeth and adds, “they shot me and took everything I had, then ran. Noticed some infected heading my way so I ducked in here.”

It could be a lie, but something inside of her tells her it's the truth; what good would it do him to lie, anyway? 

So, despite the little voice in her head screaming at her not to, she lowers the bow and moves closer. He watches her the whole time, gaze trained on her, and when she kneels, close to his injured side, he leans away. 

Up close, she takes a moment to really look at him — his skin is tanned, face lean and sharp and littered with freckles, a bit of stubble clinging to his chin and jaw. Black hair falls messily to his shoulders, damp with sweat, and she cannot deny that he is handsome, in a wolfish sort of way. Would be even more so, were it not for the grimace of pain and distrust marring his features.

“What are you doing?” He sounds unsure, softer, and she does her best to smile. 

“I was going to try and help you,” she says, setting the bow down beside her and tugging the backpack off, opening it up. “At least clean and bandage the wound, so it doesn’t become infected,” she explains, pulling out the necessary items; cloths, tape, water, and alcohol. Cordelia knows it’s foolish — she should be conserving these items, not using them on strangers, but she also knows it's the right thing to do.

He still looks disbelieving, but moves his hand and allows her to lift the shirt. Says nothing as she sets to work, wiping away the blood with a wet cloth and even when she applies a bit of alcohol, he is silent — winces, hand gripping his thigh, but his only sound is a faint hiss. 

It is not until she begins to bandage the wound, doing her best to keep her touch gentle, that he speaks.

“What’s your name?”

She glances up, meeting his gaze with her own, and lets her smile widen. “I’m Cordelia, and you?”

“Mason,” he responds, eyes darting away from hers as he looks down, watching her secure the cloth into place. “You make it a habit of fixing up wounded strangers, sweetheart?”

“No,” she laughs and once she is sure the dressing will hold, leans back, returning what is left of her supplies to her pack. “But, if the roles were reversed, I would like to think you might do the same for me.”

“Someone as pretty as you? I’d think about it, that’s for sure.”

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she passes him the bottle of water and then continues to dig through her pack, before she feels her fingers bump into something cool and plastic. Grabs it and pulls out a small pill bottle, twisting the cap open and getting two of the small, white tablets out. “Here,” she says, dropping the pills into his outstretched hand, “take these, they should help with the pain and any fever you might have.”

“Is there anything you _don’t_ have in that bag of yours?” He pops the pills into his mouth, takes a sip of the water, and throws his head back, swallowing the medicine. Follows it with another gulp of water, and she briefly wonders how long it’s been, since he last had anything to eat or drink.

Cordelia drops the medicine back into her pack and zips it up, moving it to rest against the counter. Shifts into a sitting position beside him and shrugs, allowing herself to finally relax. “I like to be prepared, is that a bad thing?”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Mason chuckles and sets the water down between his legs, tipping the bottle back and forth gently, “I’m damn glad you showed up, just trying to figure out what a woman like you is doing out here all alone.”

A fair question, but not one she wants to answer — not fully, at least. “I was with a group, but I’m not now,” is all she says, fingers picking at the zipper on her jacket, flicking the little metal piece with her nails. Then, before he can respond, she changes the subject and says, “There’s a horde, outside.” 

Mason, thankfully, accepts the topic switch and curses. “How’d you get past them?”

“I was in the pharmacy across the street,” she answers, and tips back, resting against the counter, “when I came out, I saw them heading this way and ran over here, found the broken window and well, here I am.”

“Did you see how many?”

“Two dozen, possibly more,” she waits as he swears again, harsher this time, and adds, “mostly Runners, but I heard a few Clickers as well.” And if they are lucky, that’s all the horde contains; she is in no mood to deal with Stalkers today, or worse, a Bloater. “I covered the window, just to be safe.”

He groans. “Goddamn motherfuckers,” he grumbles and despite the severity of the situation, she finds herself giggling. “Something funny, sweetheart?”

“Nope, not a thing.”

She knows that he knows she’s lying, but he lets it go and a comfortable silence settles over them. This is not at all how she imagined her day ending — she should have been out of this city by now — but, all things considered, she could be doing a lot worse right now. At least this place is safe, and if she’s lucky, the horde will be gone by the morning.

And if she’s not, well, then she will have to figure something else out.

“Are you on your own, or with a group?” She asks, pulling her legs up and tucking them against her chest, arms wrapping around her knees. 

He looks toward her, gray eyes bright even in the gloom of the store, and seems to debate on whether he should answer or not. “Yeah,” he mutters and shakes his head, gaze sliding up to the ceiling as he raises a hand, pinching the bridge of his nose between the pads of his thumb and index finger. “Ava’s going to kill me for getting myself into this fucking mess.”

“Ava?”

“She’s the little leader of our group, I mean,” he snorts, hand falling back to his lap, “it’s only the four of us, so I don’t know if that’s a group, but whatever we are, she runs it. Used to be military, so she’s good with all that authority bullshit.”

It is easy to tell, from his tone alone, that no matter what he thinks about authority, he respects Ava. Which is good, she has seen first hand what can happen to a group when respect is lost or never earned.

He tells her about the other two, as well; Nat, a soft spoken markswoman with a silver tongue, and Felix, the best damn scout he’s apparently ever met. Explains how they met, in a little town that quickly fell apart and collapsed in on itself — how they left before it took them down with it, just the four of them setting out to try and survive. And Mason keeps his words short, concise and to the point, but she can tell that he loves these people; that he would die for them, put his life on the line for them, and she finds herself envious, almost.

Such a bond is rare, these days, and one that has, so far, eluded her.

After a time, she can see the medicine is beginning to take its toll on him; eyes fluttering closed, words slurring and body going loose, slouching to the right. 

“You should get some rest,” she tells him gently, and he mutters something incoherent, “don’t worry, I’ll protect you,” she teases and he tries to laugh, but the sound is odd, heavy and low.

A whole two minutes later, and he is out like a light, body slumping over and falling against her own. His head lands on her shoulder and she goes stiff, only for a moment, face flushing and heart racing. Forces herself to relax and settles in, laying her cheek against the soft pillow of his hair, sleep creeping at the edges of her mind.

She has no idea how long they sleep for, only that when she wakes, there is a thin sliver of sunlight streaming in from one of the front windows, a piece of the plywood torn away. Mason is gone and for a brief, terrifying moment, she feels panic — but her things are untouched, bow still beside her and bag still closed. Quickly, she grabs both and stands, legs numb and tingling. Waits, long enough to shake a bit of feeling back into them, and then she is moving, out from behind the counter and toward the other room.

To her immense relief — and bewilderment, at the relief — she finds Mason there, standing in-front of the window. When she enters, he turns to look at her and though his movements are slow, she can tell he is doing a bit better; not healed, not even close, but strong enough to stand now.

“The horde is gone.”

“That’s good,” she says, trying desperately to stomp down on the emotions rising within her; it’s foolish, she knows it is, but he is the first human she has had contact with in nearly a month and a half and she had no idea how much she missed the interaction, until now. “Looks like you’re feeling a bit better?”

“Yeah,” he nods and lifts a hand, rubbing at his shoulder, “a bit stiff, and sore as fuck, but I think I can travel.”

“Good, I’m glad,” and she is, truly she is, even if the words feel like glass coming out of her throat.

Mason studies her, those storm cloud eyes searching for something she cannot say, and then he is turning, back to her. “So, are you ready to go? If we leave now, we should reach my group by mid-afternoon, or at least before dark.”

She blinks, confusion only swelling as she tilts her head, mind scrambling to make sense of the words. “I’m — sorry, what?”

“Listen,” he starts, raking a hand through his hair as he looks back at her, “you saved my ass, I’d be dead or close to it, if not for you, so I thought, I don’t know, you could come back with me? Five is a lot safer than one, that’s for damn sure.”

“You — you want me to join your group?”

“I mean, you don’t have to,” he sounds awkward now, rubbing at the nape of his neck, and tears his gaze away from her, “I just figured I’d offer, sure the others won’t mind, not after they hear what you did for me.”

It’s a big decision, one that requires careful consideration — or it would, if her mind were not already made up. “Yes, I think I’d like that.” 

“Good, then let’s stop wasting time and get moving, before those fuckers decide to turn back around.”

Cordelia laughs and strides forward, to help him remove the tarp. And this could be a mistake, could all blow up in her face, but this chance — to be with people again, to not be alone anymore — is more than worth the risk, she thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and/or comments are appreciated! I'm also on [tumblr!](https://elmshore.tumblr.com/)


	18. a bit of misfortune (nat/ava/nb detective)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Day 18: Empty) Nat dislikes cars, Eden dislikes horses, and Ava has to come to the rescue.

Humans are indeed a fascinating species, one that when faced with a problem or obstacle choose to create, rather than accept defeat. Three hundred years she has lived and in this time, Nat has been afforded the opportunity to witness the invention and innovation of many wonders. And while she may not enjoy all of these creations, she can at least see the _purpose_ in them and appreciate, in her own way, how they help improve the lives of others.

When it comes to cars, however, Nat simply must draw a line in the sand and stand her ground.

The invention of the automobile may have made life easier for people, but it also introduced far more danger, and Nat has disliked them from the moment of their inception to this very point. Everything about them just feels _wrong_ ; the design, the speed, and never mind the sheer amount of work it requires to simply keep one running! All of it is such a waste of time and precious resources.

Horses were simpler, she thinks, and far more rewarding to work with; one could form a true bond with their steed, but what connection is there to be had with a hunk of metal?

Absolutely none. And perhaps that — alongside the danger they pose, of course — is the reason she has no fondness for them? Cars are soulless, cold and empty, and there is no real life to them, outside of the means they require to function. A car cares nothing for the driver, but demands that the driver care everything about the car.

It is not an equivalent exchange.

But, as she cannot hope to halt the progression of the world, Nat has chosen instead to adapt in her own way. She recognizes that motorized vehicles are here to stay, and so she is careful in how she interacts with them; prefers a more passive approach, over being an active participant — she does not even know _how_ to drive, and truly, has no desire to learn.

If she must be in a car, then she is happier being along for the ride while someone else handles the terrifying act of handling the vehicle. 

Or, she typically is, when that someone is _not_ Eden.

Eden is, she has found, a great many things. They are passionate and funny, witty in their own unique way, and compassionate, even if they pretend otherwise. And they can make her feel so much joy it is almost overwhelming, a flood of emotion that threatens to crest over her like a great wave and pull her down into the depths of happiness, and they are the reason that she no longer feels alone, or empty. They are her saving grace, one half of her soul and heart, and she loves them, more than anything.

They are not, however, a very good driver.

Unsurprisingly, Eden approaches driving in much the same way they approach other aspects of their life; fast and daring, reckless even. Nat thinks it is a marvel that they are not dead by this point, what with the way they ignore every possible speed law — an irony, given their status within the police force — and their utter regard for safety regulations.

And the music! 

Loud and booming and pulsating, enough to make the car shake and leave Nat wondering how they can even focus on the road, when they are too busy singing and bouncing in their seat to the rhythm, head swaying back and forth.

She has long since lost count of the times she has sat folded into their passenger seat, white-knuckling the door and holding a breath she has no need for, while Eden weaves through traffic or all but swings into a parking space, tires squealing at the sharp turns. Nat swears that one time, she felt a side of the vehicle lift off the ground, but Eden had merely laughed and told her to calm down, that it would be fine.

Well, things are not fine now, are they?

The problem started with a dinging, faint and almost melodic. Eden had not heard it, their music drowning it out, but Nat heard it; made it out clear as crystal, even above the hard bass of the song filling the car. She pointed it out, but Eden had assured her that it was fine, that it was a warning and nothing more.

And Nat had believed them, until the sputtering began.

Now, she is no expert on cars — despite Ava’s best attempts at teaching her _something_ — but even she knows that such a thing can hardly be a good sign and Eden only just manages to pull off to the side of the road before the vehicle dies. Goes silent and still, quiet and unmoving, like a beast felled.

So, here they are. An hour and a half from Wayhaven, with a car that refuses to start, and the beginning of a rainstorm brewing just outside, the sky turning darker by the minute.

Eden is the first to get out, tearing off their seatbelt and throwing open the door with enough force to make Nat wince, the hinges creaking in protest. She follows, slower, and closes the door behind her, then walks around to the front of the car, where Eden now stands.

“What happened, love?”

“No fucking idea,” they grumble and then they jab a finger toward the driver side, “do me a favor and pull the lever under the wheel, I need to open the hood.”

Nat hurries to do as she requested, skirting around Eden and toward their side of the car, leaning inside. She reaches under the wheel and feels about for a lever, frowning until she finds it. Pulls and hears a dull _thunk_ , as the mechanism unlocks. “Got it,” Eden calls, muffled now, and she returns to their side, as they set about securing the hood in place. It worries her, how such a thin support bar is meant to hold up something so heavy, but if Eden shares her concern, they do an excellent job of hiding it.

Instead they brace their hands along the edge of the bumper and lean forward, gray eyes surveying the various components arranged within. 

All of it is foreign to Nat, bits and pieces that hold no real meaning to her; she knows a few of their names, and what some of them are designed to do, but she has no true understanding of them. Even so, she places herself at Eden’s side and tips forward as well, one hand curling around the hood to keep it upright, just in case.

“Do you see the issue?” She asks, after a few moments of silence have passed and Eden has yet to say a single word.

Eden blows out a sharp breath and then laughs, a dry sound. “Nope, not a fucking thing. It’s like looking at something from outer space, I have no damn clue what any of it means.”

Well, at least she is not alone in her lack of understanding.

“So, what do we do now?” 

For Nat, returning to Wayhaven is a non-issue; her speed means that she would reach the small city in a matter of minutes, but doing so would mean leaving Eden alone and that is something she will not do. Too many dangers still lurk out there, all of them laser-focused on this one person she loves with all her heart, and it is too risky, to even contemplate.

“I guess there’s nothing for it,” Eden sighs and motions for her to step back, closing the hood with a loud _snap_. Brushes off their hands and pivots on their heel, planting themselves atop the car. “I’m going to have to call Ava.”

“Come now, love,” Nat chuckles and joins them atop the car, a hand moving to rest on their knee, “I am sure she will not mind coming to pick us up.”

Eden snorts and reaches around, yanking the phone out of their back pocket. “Oh I know she won’t,” they mutter, unlocking the device and thumbing through the list of contacts, “but god she’s going to give me hell for this.”

There is no arguing that point, unfortunately. Ava has been trying, unsuccessfully, to persuade Eden to relinquish their current car and purchase another one — she has even offered to pay for it, no expense spared, but their Eden is stubborn, just as Ava is, and they refuse. _I’ve had this car longer than I’ve known either of you_ , they counter, anytime the topic is broached, _and I’m gonna drive it until it explodes_.

Which, Nat fears, may not be long off.

To her side, Eden finds the number they seek and with a quick press of their finger, lifts the device to their ear. It rings all of one time before Ava answers, and Nat can hear her, as easily as if the phone were right at her own ear.

“ _Eden? Is everything all right?_ ”

“Uh, no, not really,” they groan and Nat is able to imagine, with perfect clarity, the way Ava must look now; at attention, brows drawn down and lips pulled into a tight frown. “Listen, don’t freak out or anything, but the car kinda died and we need a ride.”

The jangle of keys and Ava’s heavy, quick footsteps are heard before she speaks again, voice tight. “ _Stay where you are and give me the address, I will be there shortly._ ”

Eden rattles off the address, or rather, an approximation of what they _think_ is the location, and then after a quick ‘ _I love you too_ ’ hangs up, phone clutched in one hand and the other rising, pinching the bridge of their nose between their thumb and index finger. 

“God, she’s never gonna let me hear the fucking end of this.”

“I’m sure she will be grateful, that we are both all right,” Nat coaxes and takes their hand in her own, pulling it away from their nose and into her lap, fingers lacing together. “Do you have any idea, what might have caused this?”

“No? I mean, there’s gas in the tank, and it hasn’t been acting weird,” they pause, sniffing before they add, in a quieter tone, “I mean, no more than the usual weirdness, which is just age.”

Nat hums and stares down at their joined hands, tracing little circles into Eden’s palm, knowing it helps to calm them down. “Cars are such finicky creatures,” she says, shaking her head, lips ticking upward at the corners, “at least with a horse, it is easier to determine the cause of a problem.”

“I’ll take a car over a horse any day of the week,” Eden retorts and then shudders, a strange sound rising out of their throat, “at least cars kinda make sense, horses are just these strange abominations that shouldn’t exist.”

Of all the things to be afraid of, horses is still perhaps the strangest phobia Nat has encountered in her long life. Eden abhors the beasts, refuses to go near one, and still has yet to explain _why_.

“There must be a story there,” Nat begins and lifts their hand to her lips, pressing a kiss along the knuckles, “care to tell me? I have never met anyone with such a hatred for horses.”

“Not much of a story,” Eden shrugs and tilts their head back, eyes on the cloudy sky above, “Rebecca signed me up for riding lessons when I was like, eight or so, and my very first day, one of the horses bit me and then another bucked me off.”

“Ah, so you had a bad experience with them?”

“Yeah but like, have you ever looked into the eyes of a horse?” Eden shudders once more and hunches forward, as if suddenly chilled, “it’s so fucked up, there’s nothing in that gaze, it’s just dead and godless and they don’t care, they don’t give a damn if we live or die.”

Nat is not sure how to respond to that so, in the end, she thinks it better if she says nothing at all and quickly changes the topic.

“Is there a reason why you will not consider getting a new car?” She knows there is no real affection between Eden and their vehicle, not in the way she has seen with others and their own cars, sometimes naming them and treating them as if they were people, with emotions. A strange concept, one she still does not fully comprehend; at least with a pet, there is a reciprocation of the feelings, a give and take.

“Because there’s nothing wrong with it?”

When she only looks at them, they sigh and shake their head. “Look, it’s old and I know it’s dying, but it cost money and I’m not about to waste it, so yeah, I’m gonna drive this thing until it probably sets itself on fire and goes out in a flaming blaze of glory.”

That is not a particularly heartening image, but Nat has no time to speak further on it — a car is approaching, heading toward them, and she sighs. “I believe Ava is here,” she states and carefully stands, pulling Eden off and to their feet beside her. “Try not to look too anxious, darling,” she urges and tucks a lock of stray hair behind their ear, allowing her fingers to brush over their cheek, “I am sure Ava will keep her scolding to a minimum.”

Soon enough, one of the Agency’s sleek black SUVs pulls into view and parks directly in-front of them. Ava steps out, leaving the car running, and heads toward them, steps hurried but steady. A set of icy green eyes sweeps over them both, assessing for any damages, and though her face never loses that neutral expression, Nat can sense the relief emanating off her.

“What happened? Are you both all right?” She reaches them in only two steps, shoulders pulled back and tense under her dark gray peacoat. 

Nat tips forward and gives her a soft kiss, smiling. “Yes, love, we are both fine,” she explains and tugs Eden a little closer. “We simply had a bit of misfortune, it seems. Perhaps you could look, before we head back?”

The blonde nods and moves past them, toward the car. Eden follows, hand untangling from Nat’s, and is quick to pop the hood once more. Ava lifts it and after securing it in place, begins her inspection. She asks Eden, now at her side, what happened and they explain the events, from the little dinging sound to the sputtering.

Ava pops open one of the little lids, the one adorned with what Nat thinks might be a fuel container, and peers inside. 

“I mean, it’s not gas,” Eden says, leaning against the car, “I filled it up before we left and — ”

“You are out of oil,” Ava interjects, cutting Eden off and when she looks up, her eyes are narrowed, expression stern, “when was the last time you had oil put in, or even changed?”

Eden is silent for entirely too long, eyes anywhere _except_ on Ava, and the other woman sighs deeply, popping the lid shut and then closing the hood.

“Answer the question, Eden.”

They huff out an annoyed breath and fold their arms across their chest. “I didn’t know you were supposed to get the oil changed! I thought it was just, I don’t know, recycling itself or something!”

In all the centuries Nat has known Ava, she had never seen such a look of utter disappointment on her face she does now. 

“How could you not know that? Surely the person who sold you the car must have — ”

“Nope, bought it from some dude in college, he didn’t say anything about oil changes or whatever.”

Now it is Ava’s turn to pinch the bridge of her nose, eyes closed and frown so severe Nat worries it might stick. She can see the beginning of an argument, can smell it as easily as she can smell the rain that is steadily approaching them, and so she steps forward, a hand on each of their shoulders as she shakes her head.

“We all make mistakes,” she murmurs and lets her hands slide down, over their arms and into their own, gripping them tightly, “it is done, now, and we can move forward. I say we get back to town, and worry about this later, before we’re stuck in a downpour.”

They look at her, and then back to one another, before Ava nods, breaking first. “Very well,” she sighs and then glances toward Eden, who still looks poised to defend themselves, “get what you need out of the car, I will have someone return and pick it up.”

Mercifully, Eden says nothing and only steps away, to do as asked. While they are grabbing items and locking down the car, Nat spares a look toward Ava, and gives the woman a gentle nudge. “Do not be too hard on them, darling,” she whispers, giggling when the other only rolls her eyes.

“I do not understand how they could not have known,” Ava groans, her other hand rubbing at her temples, “it is a simple rule of car maintenance, they should know it.”

“I had no idea the oil needed to be changed either,” Nat offers, and is met with another groan, one so deep it shakes the ground beneath her feet.

“When we get back,” Ava begins, voice practically a growl, “I am sitting you both down for a long, overdue lesson about cars and how to properly take care of them.” And that, Nat knows, is both a promise and a threat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and/or comments are appreciated! I'm also on [tumblr!](https://elmshore.tumblr.com/)


	19. a lovely dinner (mason/nb detective)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Day 19: Wolf) Luna brings home her boyfriend, and Mason is not impressed.

The kid isn’t much to look at, is he?

 _He’s a puppy not a werewolf_ , Mason thinks dryly, studying the boy now standing awkwardly before him, awaiting his judgement. Long-limbed and gangly, with a lean build, he looks like he hasn’t quite grown into his body just yet. Even so, the family resemblance is clear — everything from the rich, dark brown skin to the goofy smile plastered on his annoying face says _this kid is a Scott, through and through!_

Because out of all the werewolves in the world, Luna just _had_ to pick a fucking Scott to date, didn’t she?

Mason knew this day would come. That at some point she would start dating, and he’s fine with that (no he isn’t), but he _knows_ she can do better than this. _Or she could just not date_ , a little voice in his head muses and he’s inclined to agree with it. After all, no dating means no stupidly grinning mutts standing in his entryway, dressed in ridiculous tuxedos and holding a bouquet of wildflowers, all different colors and smells and he swallows a growl.

Fuck, but this had been so much easier with Lyra. She brought home a nice, quiet Selkie girl, who _didn’t_ stand there smiling like a fool the whole time. Mason likes Eithne; she’s honest and never wastes time on small talk, qualities he appreciates.

And best of all, she’s not a fucking Scott.

“It’s so nice to meet you, Kiran,” Cordelia greets brightly, nestled against his side, and he almost scoffs, because it most certainly is _not_ nice to meet him, but he bites down on the noise just in time, chews it up and forces it back down his throat. “Please, come in! Luna’s still upstairs, but she’ll be down any moment!”

She steps away from him then, untangles herself from his hold and turns, moving back toward the staircase. “Luna,” she calls, hands braced atop the spiral post, “Kiran’s here!”

“Thank you, Mrs. Watson,” Kiran chirps, brown eyes flitting this way and that as he steps forward, easing out of his shoes and taking in the sight of the house. Mason almost expects to see a tail wagging behind him. “You have a lovely home,” he says, and this time, his gaze is set on Mason, that fucking smile still in place.

It does falter, however, when Mason’s only response is a grunt and a glare. Only a little, though, and Mason resolves to try harder next time.

Behind him, the sound of running footsteps against the soft carpet fills the silence and he twists around, just in time to see Luna appear at the top of the stairs, his eyes widening at the sight. She looks… different, is the only way he can describe it. Pretty, of course, but that’s a given; she is their kid, after all. It’s only strange, seeing her in something so, well, _girly_.

The outfit is nothing at all like what she typically wears and Mason recognizes the skirt as Lyra’s, a long flowing thing in soft yellow that he recalls buying for her to wear to some school dance or whatever. Her blouse is one of Cordelia’s, cream-colored and decorated in pale pink, sleeveless and a bit loose on her. She’s even got her hair styled up, the curly locks swept into a bun and held precariously in place with a gold crescent moon clip.

It makes his heart clench, a tightness spreading in his chest, to see her like this; sixteen now, so close to being all grown up, and Mason hates it, because he’s not sure he is ready for that. But, ready or not, it’s here now, and there’s not much he can do to stop it.

No matter how much he may want to.

“Wow,” Kiran whispers behind him and much as he hates to admit it, Mason agrees with the sentiment. Then, the boy is moving, brushing past him and stopping at the foot of the stairs. “You look amazing, Luna!”

Luna flushes, face turning such a deep crimson it nearly drowns out the freckles littering her cheeks, and Mason feels his hands clench, nails digging into the palms. Out of the corner of his eyes, he catches Cordelia’s stare and forces down yet another snarl at the look in her golden gaze. _Be nice_ , her words echo in the back of his mind, and he’s trying, but who the fuck does that kid think he is, saying shit like that?

“Thanks, are those for me?” Luna descends the steps quickly, her brown dress shoes peeking out from underneath the skirt, and as she reaches Kiran, he holds out the flowers, that grin brighter than ever. “They’re nice, you didn’t have to get me flowers,” she mumbles, and Mason can tell from her tone that she is nervous, unsure of how to deal with this whole situation.

Well, that makes two of them.

“I wanted to, pretty flowers for a pretty girl,” Kiran says, hands folding behind his back, and it takes every ounce of willpower Mason has not to reach over and rip his head off.

Meanwhile, Cordelia appears to be _thriving_ as she watches the two interact, and Mason won’t lie, he feels a little betrayed — they’re supposed to be partners, isn’t that what the vows said? — by her quick acceptance of the boy.

Hardly surprising though, given that she seems to actually _like_ Maaka and Tane.

“Here, I’ll put these in some water,” Cordelia offers, taking the flowers from Kiran and then nods toward the dining room, “you two go sit down, dinner is ready.” Then she is looking at him and foolishly, Mason feels the urge to squirm. “Your Dad can help me bring out the food,” she says, and he knows there’s no reason to argue, not when she uses _that_ voice.

The kids head off first, Luna stepping off the stairs and slipping her hand into Kiran’s, leading him toward the dining area. He can hear her asking about his ride here and if he found the place okay, each question answered cheerfully by the boy who is all but skipping after her. Mason scowls, no doubt glowering at their retreating forms before he feels a hand, featherlight and warm, on his arm and he looks down, Cordelia next to him, smiling.

“Come on,” she coaxes, tugging at him before she starts toward the kitchen and he follows, reluctantly, steps heavy and dragging. Does his best on the way past to keep an eye on the pair, now sitting comfortably side by side at the large table.

Once they are in the kitchen, and his line of sight has been broken, Mason lets out the snarl he’s been holding back for what feels like an eternity. “Really? _Him_?” He doesn’t bother to keep his voice down; it’s his house, after all. If the kid doesn’t like his tone, he’s free to see himself out the door and back to wherever the hell he came from.

“Be nice, Mason,” Cordelia hums and moves toward the sink, hunkering down as she opens the cabinet door and rummages inside, standing then with a glass vase in hand. She turns on the tap, fills it with a bit of water, and switches it off, setting the flowers down inside. “He seems like a sweet boy, and Luna is already a bundle of nerves, she doesn’t need you threatening her boyfriend.”

He groans, the sound rumbling through him like an eruption. “Don’t say that word,” he snaps, suddenly wishing more than anything that he had a cigarette. 

Ten years he’s gone without one, and now this fucking dog is going to drive him to smoke again.

Cordelia laughs and the sound is comforting, a lilting melody that soothes the growing ache in his head. She sets the flowers down beside the sink and then turns, toward the counter filled with food. Fuses over the basket of rolls for a moment, arranging them prettily, and once satisfied, steps away, heels clicking against the hardwood floor. Even she is all dressed up, adorned in a simple black dress that has him wanting to call this whole thing off and whisk her back to the bedroom. He’d flat out refused to put on a suit when she asked, but in the end he _did_ relent and allow her to pick out one of his nicer shirts, complete with a tie he is itching to rip off.

Briefly, he wonders if he could get the thing off and slip it around the kid’s neck, apply just the right amount of pressure and — 

“I know it’s hard,” she murmurs, bringing him out of his thoughts, and then she is in-front of him, arms wrapping around his middle as she leans closer, gazing up at him with that look she _knows_ he can’t say no to, “but just try to behave, okay? For Luna, this is important to her, she really wants her Papa to approve.”

Mason rolls his eyes, but between her touch and that fucking look, he knows it’s pointless to fight. “Fine,” he grumbles, letting his hands settle at her hips, “but he’s on thin fucking ice.”

“He just got here!”

“Exactly!”

She shakes her head, body vibrating with suppressed laughter, and raises up, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “It’s so cute,” she tells him, mouth curving into a sly smile, “how protective you are.”

“Yeah, it’ll be cute when I tear his head off,” he mutters only to feel a little pinch at his side, another growl escaping him. “I’ll do it outside, wouldn’t want to get blood all over your nice carpet,” he teases, earning himself another lovely laugh.

Cordelia gives him one more kiss, the kind that always leaves him hungry for more, and pulls away, beckoning for him to follow. He does, and feels his nose wrinkle at the smell of the food; he assumes it’s good, no one has ever complained about her cooking before, but he’s in no hurry to taste it for himself. Too many flavors and textures, he shudders at the thought.

“Here,” she says, passing him the basket of rolls, “you carry that and,” she reaches over, grabs a bowl of salad, and suddenly both of his hands are full, “this, think you can handle it?”

“I don’t need my hands empty to kill him, sweetheart.”

“No, but it does limit your options a bit,” she quips and gives his thigh a little pat, along with a wink, “now go on, I’ll be right behind you.”

True to her word, she is right on his heels as they exit the kitchen and approach the table, where Luna and Kiran are huddled together, chatting in low voices. He clears his throat, loud enough to echo, and feels a vindictive sort of amusement when they both jump, Kiran looking like he just got caught with his pants down and Luna glaring darkly, a mirror of his own.

He offers them a tight grin as he sets the bowls down harshly, one of the rolls nearly tumbling out. “Food’s here,” he grunts, eyes fixed on Kiran, who is once again smiling.

The boy’s attention is diverted, however, when Cordelia arrives and sets down the steaming dish, carefully arranging it in the center of the table. “It smells delicious, Mrs. Watson,” Kiran exclaims, and Mason is actually a little surprised he’s not drooling.

“Thank you,” Cordelia beams and moves to take her seat, Mason joining her. “I hope you like lasagna, it’s Luna’s favorite.”

“Yes, ma’am! It’s one of my favorites too,” Kiran replies, and it’s hard to tell if he’s just saying that to earn brownie points, or if it’s true. “Luna tells me you’re a fantastic cook, and I believe her, this all looks amazing, thank you.”

Dinners like this are always so damn awkward for Mason; everyone around him is eating and he’s just sitting here, arms folded across his chest and waiting for them to hurry up. Usually it’s not so bad, if the other two are here — between the three kids and Cordelia, there’s plenty to focus on, but Lyra and Orion are out tonight, at a movie, so he can’t even fall back on them to keep him distracted.

Has to, instead, listen to the conversation happening around him.

Luna explains how they met, in one of the classes offered by the Agency for the kids of supernaturals, some bullshit thing about how to co-exist between two different worlds, and that they kept getting paired together on projects, which is how they started talking. Kiran jokes that for a while, it was only him doing the talking; Luna would barely look at him, and Mason finds himself wishing she’d kept that up. Then they wouldn’t be here, and he wouldn’t be suffering.

Mason is busy trying to decide who the kid reminds him more of, Maaka — with his easy compliments — or Tane — always smiling too fucking much — when he feels Cordelia shift beside him, buttering one of the rolls and then taking a bite, his eyes drawn to the way her tongue darts across her lips. “I know you’re Tane and Maaka’s nephew,” she says, returning her knife to the table, “but I’ve noticed you don’t carry the same accent?”

“No, ma’am,” Kiran says, taking a quick sip of his water before smiling, “I was born and raised in Wales, it’s where my father lives. Mum stayed with him there, to raise me, said she wanted me to have a stable home growing up.”

“His mum is really nice,” Luna interjects, stuffing a roll into her mouth and damn near inhaling it, “I’ve met her a couple of times, she teaches self-defense classes for the Agency.”

To be honest, he never even knew the Scott brothers had a sister, but then again, when has he ever cared about their personal lives? Mason wonders if she’s just as insufferable as her brothers and her spawn, and makes a mental note to avoid her, if possible.

Cordelia launches into more questions, about his family and what the two like doing together and other boring crap he’s got zero interest in knowing. Instead, he’s busy trying to determine if the boy can handle himself; he doesn’t have much in the way of muscles, at least not that he can tell from the suit, but he’s seen werewolves fight.

They’re vicious creatures, when they need to be. But the more he looks at Kiran, the more he just sees a golden retriever, not a werewolf.

Maybe a test, then?

“Hey, kid,” he calls, voice cutting through the din of their chatter, and when three sets of eyes swivel to look at him, he smirks. “How’s your reflexes?”

“Oh! Uh, I think they’re — ” Kiran yelps, words sputtering out as his arm flies up and he just barely manages to catch the handle of the knife thrown his way. His heart is thudding rapidly in his chest, hand shaking, and Mason nods.

“Mason!”

“Dad!”

He frowns, gaze dragging between the pair of glaring redheads. “What? He caught it, didn’t he?” At his side, Cordelia sighs, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose, and Luna looks ready to throw her plate at him, cheeks heating in that way they always do when she’s angry. Directly across from him, Kiran laughs and leans across the table, returning the knife to Mason, who slides it back to Cordelia.

“It’s fine, really,” the boy says, and though his heartbeat is still elevated, it’s obvious that he isn’t angry or upset. “Did I pass the test, sir?”

Mason scoffs. “Not quite, but I guess you’re not as weak as you look.”

“Thank you!” And it’s most definitely not a compliment, but apparently the kid can twist anything into good news. 

“So,” he drawls, hands shoved in his pockets and hunching forward, “you play any sports, kids?”

Kiran perks. “Yes, sir! I play rugby, baseball, oh and football, too!”

“How about fetch?” Something whacks against his arm and he turns, to find Cordelia once again glaring at him, lips pursed and arm still raised. “What? It’s a valid question.”

To his credit, Kiran never misses a beat as he says, “I used to play, sir, but not so much now that I’m older.”

Beside him, Luna giggles and even Cordelia laughs — traitors, the both of them. He glares at the kid, but that fucking grin is still there and he doesn’t want to admit it, but maybe the kid is all right. Definitely not good enough for Luna, but maybe not so bad.

Mason still hates him though.

The rest of dinner goes smoothly — Cordelia subtly moves all of the knives out of his reach, which he thinks is cute because that’s definitely not enough to stop him — and thank god, there’s no dessert; he’s not sure he could take much more of this, sitting here and listening to the kid answer questions, in-between giving Luna puppy eyes.

When the time comes for the kid to _finally_ leave, Mason stops him on the way out of the dining room, waiting until both Cordelia and Luna are a little ways off before he speaks, keeping his voice low. “Listen, we need to get a few things straight, before you walk out that door.”

That smile is gone now, replaced by an expression so utterly serious it’s almost hilarious. “Of course, sir.”

“First, I don’t like you, and tonight didn’t change that,” he growls, hands shoved in his pockets as he watches the boy, glad to see him wince a little at the words, “and if it were up to me, you’d be out that door and never coming back, got it?” A silent nod is his only response, which is just fine with him. “Good, now, standard shit applies: you hurt her, make her cry, or try to do _anything_ beyond kissing, and I will rip your fucking throat out, got it?”

And sure, he _should_ feel bad for threatening a seventeen year old kid, but he doesn’t. He _really_ doesn’t.

Kiran stands a little taller and that serious expression is still there, stronger than ever. “I’d never do anything to hurt Luna, sir, you have my word on that.”

He knows from experience that’s not a promise easily kept, but the kid sounds sincere enough and that’s about as good as he’s going to get, for now, so he’ll accept it. “Fine,” he mutters and stalks past the boy, hands shoved in his pockets, “let’s go then, before they think I’ve murdered you or something.”

Kiran hurries after him and as they rejoin the others, says his goodbyes to Luna, going in for a kiss on the cheek that has Mason snarling. The boy tosses him a sheepish smile and, after bidding them farewell — which Cordelia returns, because of course she does — heads out, Luna lingering wistfully in the doorway after him until he is well out of sight, down the long driveway and toward his bicycle.

Her dreamy mood is gone, however, when she turns around and all but slams the door behind her. “What the hell was that, Dad?!”

“Luna,” Cordelia says sharply, “language, please.”

“He threw a knife at my boyfriend!”

Ugh, that fucking word again. “Yeah, and he’s fine,” Mason grumbles, then with a smirk adds, “surprised he didn’t catch it with his teeth, though. You know, like a frisbee?”

Luna throws up her hands and races past them, ascending the stairs two steps at a time. “Ugh, this is so embarrassing,” she mumbles, stomping her way down the hall and back to her room, slamming the door behind her.

When he looks back to Cordelia, it’s clear she is trying her damndest not to laugh. “Oh come on, sweetheart, that was a little funny, you know it.”

“You,” she says, grabbing him by the tie and tugging him after her, back toward the kitchen, “are helping me with the dishes, thanks to your little showing tonight.”

“Fine, but admit it, you thought it was funny.”

She doesn’t respond, but he can see her lips twitch and really, that’s all the answer he needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and/or comments are appreciated! I'm also on [tumblr!](https://elmshore.tumblr.com/)
> 
> ALSO: I am so sorry for not responding to all the comments, life has been crazy lately but!! I do see them, and I appreciate them so much (I just feel awkward replying to comments days after, don't want to bother people) but thank you so much to everyone who reads my work and takes the time to be so supportive, I treasure each and every one of you!


	20. learn together (nat/ava/nb detective)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Day 20: Fear) Eden is having serious second doubts about a major decision, but Ava and Nat are there to help.

How many peanuts would it take, to kill a full grown human?

The question pops into their head unceremoniously as they shove another handful of the salty goodness into their mouth and, chewing, Eden decides it hardly matters. After all, if they were going to die from a peanut overdose, they probably would have by now considering they’ve eaten a fuck ton of them, by this point.

Unless it’s like, some sort of delayed effect or whatever? Oh well, too late now.

Still, contemplating their possible demise via peanut is preferable to thinking about how absolutely _pathetic_ they must look right now. Hunched over a table in their dark kitchen, stuffing mixed cashews into their face and trying, desperately, not to focus on the little lifeform growing inside of them.

Because if they think about it for longer than, like, a _second_ then they’re going to freak out. _Again_. And they don’t have Mason here this time to snap them out of a full-blown panic attack — turns out he’s pretty good in those situations, go figure — and Eden really isn’t in the fucking mood to have another meltdown, not at five past four in the goddamn morning.

If they have a breakdown, then they’re going to wake up the two people they are actively _hiding_ this shit from and, well, that’d just be counterproductive, wouldn’t it?

Fuck, why the _hell_ had they even agreed to do this?

Having kids, it’s just never been on their radar. They can barely take care of themselves half the fucking time! Without Nat, they’d probably forget to eat most days, and never mind that they still have to sing the alphabet just to remember which letter goes after which, so how the absolute fuck are they going to look after a baby?

Only… they can remember the look on Nat’s face, practically glowing at the mention of kids, and the way even Ava had softened, icy green eyes crinkling at the corners, and well, since they’re the only one out of the three who could even _get_ pregnant, here they are.

Pregnant. _Fuck_.

And yeah, they weren’t forced into this. Eden knows that if they had said so, both Nat and Ava would have dropped the subject immediately, never to speak of it again, but god they would have felt _awful_ for doing that, after seeing just how much this means to both of them — especially Nat, who always gives and gives, and isn’t it fair, that she gets something she wants, for once? Besides, it’s not like they hate the idea of having kids with the two people they love more than anything, really it’s not that, it’s just… how the hell are they even going to be a parent?

Especially since they have literally nothing to base it off. There’s books and shit, sure — Nat bought plenty of them — and online articles, and if they’re being honest, probably a million and more how-to videos on YouTube, but none of them _mean_ anything, compared to actual experience. And on that particular front, they have nothing; nada, zero, zip. Who can they even look to, _Rebecca_? Eden would laugh at the thought, if they didn’t have more cashews stuffed in their mouth.

Eden is used to winging things, sure. Flying by the seat of their pants and hoping for the best, but something tells them that method won’t exactly work, when it comes to raising a kid.

Deep in their chest, just under their heart, that familiar pang of dread rears its ugly head and they chew faster, grabbing another fistful of peanuts and tossing them back — almost chokes, coughing and spluttering, their arm flinging out on instinct and slamming into the metal tin, accidentally knocking it off the table. It clatters to the floor, contents spilling everywhere, and that’s all it takes for the floodgates to crash open.

They are crying before they even realize it, big ugly tears rolling down their cheeks and they let out a hitching sob, lungs already burning as they suck in a gulp of air. Eden folds their arms on the table and buries their head in them, body shaking, and it would almost be funny — losing their shit over a tin of cheap cashews — except, right now, they’re just so damn tired and scared and all they wanted were some fucking peanuts, is that too much to ask for?

According to the universe, yes, it is too much to ask for.

A hand, warm and light, slides along their back and they go still. Draw in a quivering breath and look up, vision blurry from the water filling their gaze. The light is on now, and Nat stands at their side, brown eyes filled with worry; she looks fresh from bed, brown hair messy and her familiar green pajamas a little rumpled. Before she can speak, lips parting, Eden lunges forward and throws their arms around her middle, burying their face against her stomach, still bawling like a child.

“Oh, love,” Nat consoles, hands threading through Eden’s hair, those slender fingers stroking the strawberry blonde locks gently and her voice is like a blanket, cozy and safe, wrapping around them. “Darling, what’s the matter?”

“Are you in any pain?”

They shake their head, tears ruining more of Nat’s pajamas, and then glance toward the sound of the other voice, where Ava stands just in the doorway. Like Nat, she looks straight out of bed; blonde hair loose and tousled, adorned in her simple gray sweatpants and a plain white tank-top, the left side rolling up just a bit, exposing a bit of fair skin underneath. She takes a step further into the kitchen and then stops, a pale eyebrow arching as she takes in the salty debris.

“Why are there peanuts all over the floor?”

Eden swallows and sniffs, face warm from the crying and now, the embarrassment of being caught crying. “I wanted some,” they start, hiccupping for a moment, and then, “but I knocked them off and now they’re all ruined and I’m just a fuck-up who can’t even eat cashews right!”

Soft hands cup their face and tilt their head back, so they are forced to look up at Nat. She looks stern, but there is so much love shining in her gaze that it makes Eden want to cry all over again because _fuck_ , but they don’t deserve it. 

“Eden,” Nat murmurs, fingers brushing away the tears, her touch featherlight as it sweeps over their cheeks, “love, you know I will not stand for that sort of talk.”

They want to argue, but it’s useless — Nat will compromise on a lot, they’ve found, but never on this point — and so all they can do is nod. It seems to satisfy her, for now, and she moves. Leans down, pressing a kiss to their forehead, before she steps back and pulls out the nearest chair, scooting it closer before she sits. Nat reaches out then and takes one of Eden’s hands in her own, fingers lacing together as she leans forward.

“Now, tell us what is truly wrong.”

Ava joins them at the table, but she opts not to sit; instead, she kneels between them and covers Eden’s other hand with her own, giving it a light squeeze. “Talk to us, _amica mea_ ,” she urges, voice firm yet quiet, and damn, did she really have to bust out the pet name?

But that’s Ava, always pulling all of her punches when it counts.

God, what a sight they must make right now — two immortal vampires huddled at a table, consoling a pregnant mess of a person, and cashews strewn all about the floor. 

And this is what they wanted to avoid, for fuck’s sake! But, just like everything else in their life, it seems they can’t even hide their own spiraling fear right. Not surprising; they couldn’t even finish _music_ school, which really says everything about them as a human being, doesn’t it?

“I’m scared,” they admit finally, even as the little voice in their head screams at them to shut up, to stop being a burden. Eden groans and leans forward, head hitting the table with a dull _thud_ as they mutter, “I’m going to be the worst parent ever.”

“Why do you think that?” Ava asks, and Eden would scoff, if they weren’t busy trying to keep themselves from crying again.

Instead, they raise their head and look at her, eyes burning now. “Because look at me! It’s four in the fucking morning on a goddamn Tuesday and I’m crying over spilled cashews! How the fuck am I going to take care of a baby?!” Their voice is louder now, echoing in the small kitchen, and they don’t miss the way both vampires wince, but they can’t stop now, the words clambering up their throat and tumbling out of their lips.

“Can’t go off my own parents, that’s for fucking sure! Rebecca was never there, and dear old dad got himself killed when _I_ was still a baby, so he’s no help!” Eden pauses, hiccupping once more before they force out a laugh. “And those books you bought are nice, Nat, but they don’t tell me anything! Hell, even Verda is no help, all he tells me is ‘you’ll figure it out as you go’ and like, how the _fuck_ does that help? I couldn’t even pass college for a fucking music degree, I can’t learn shit!”

Their head is starting to hurt now, a dull throb forming right behind the left side of their temple, but they ignore it and yank their hands away. Shove them through their hair and tip forward, resting on their elbows, screwing their eyes shut. Tries to breathe, but only manages a slight wheeze.

“And I’m just so damn terrified that I’m gonna have this baby and they’re going to hate me, and then I’ll disappoint all three of you and I can’t handle that, I can’t — ”

“Eden.”

Ava again, voice hard as stone and loud enough to cut them off, to put a stopper on the flood of words cascading out of their mouth. They don’t dare look up, though; aren’t ready to handle the look on either of their wives’ faces.

“We are scared, too.”

The words sit in the air between them, heavy and raw, and now they do look up, grey eyes fixed on the woman who, up until this point, they assumed had no idea what fear even meant.

“You are?”

“Of course we are, love,” Nat says then, tone soothing as she pries one of Eden’s hands from their hair, holding it tightly in her grip. “This is new for all of us, but you are not alone, Ava and I are both here for you.”

Eden can feel Ava’s hand against their back down, rubbing small circles and the action is enough to make them sag, shoulders drooping and muscles loosening. “There is no shame in feeling fear,” the blonde says, her voice a comfort in this moment, “and you more than any of us have a right to it, in this situation, but Nat is right: we are with you, always.”

They’re crying again, fuck it all, and they drop their free hand, clamp it over their eyes and try to control their shaking. Lips, soft as velvet, brush along their knuckles and they swallow down yet another sob.

“There will be mistakes,” Nat whispers, and her breath is warm against their skin, “and we will falter, many times, but we will be together. A family, one filled with love and support and that, I think, will be enough.”

 _A family_. It’s not really a concept Eden is familiar with, seems weird and foreign; they were raised by neighbors, strangers who cared more about them than their own mother did. All they know about family is what they’ve seen in movies, and they know most of that’s fake; idealized realities, with all the rough edges sawed off.

And they don’t want that for their kid — for them to rely on neighbors for guidance and attention, to grow up wondering if anyone would be there for their birthday or call on a holiday. Eden doesn’t want to repeat their own mother’s mistakes, but what if it’s unavoidable? What if they’re doomed to be just like Rebecca?

“You are not your mother, Eden,” Ava states and they realize, with no small amount of shame, that they must have said _some_ of that out loud, heat rising in their cheeks once more. “Rebecca’s failings do not have to define you, unless you let them.”

Eden blows out a heavy sigh, hand falling back to the table and they lean back, chair creaking underneath them. “I don’t know how to not let them, though,” they whisper, voice cracking as they stare up at the plain ceiling, “I don’t know how to do any of this.”

“Then we shall learn together, love,” Nat assures them, pressing another delicate kiss to their palm, and it sends a pleasant tingle running up their arm and straight to their heart. “There is so much love in you, dearheart. Ava and I both have seen it, we feel it every day we are with you, and I know that this child will feel it too.”

And somehow, past all of the doubt and the fear and the panic, they know she is right. Eden smiles, a little bubble of laughter rising in their chest and when it spills out, it is a wet, shaky sound. Looks down, gaze sliding between the two women they have vowed to spend the rest of their life with, and feels something within their heart click into place, like a little puzzle piece finally fitting together.

“Thanks,” is all they can manage, so insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but they know the other two will hear the rest; all the words they can’t say, too thick and jagged to make it past the tip of their tongue. Eden lays a hand on their swollen belly and lets out a puff of air. “Sorry for making you two worry, guess these hormones got the better of me,” they laugh, only for it to fade as two more hands join their own, Ava’s first and then Nat’s, each covering the other.

“We love you,” Ava says, her emerald gaze holding their own, “we shall always worry.”

“Please, dearest, if you ever feel this way, come to us,” Nat urges, closing the distance between them to place a sweet kiss on Eden’s lips, “we will do all we can to help you.”

They nod and lean forward, returning the kiss with one of their own, and then tilt, giving Ava one as well, the blonde making a small sound of surprise that has them smiling. “I’m sorry,” Eden grumbles, settling back into the chair, “all this over some damn peanuts.”

Ava scoffs, but there is amusement — and affection — clear in her expression. “The peanuts were merely a catalyst, but,” she pauses, gaze flicking toward the mess before she sighs and adds, “I will be sure to get you more tomorrow.”

“Really? Could you get the mixed kind, this time? I love cashes, but it’s kinda boring just eating the same nut over and over.”

“If that is what you wish,” Ava states, nodding gravely, “then I shall be sure to acquire them.”

She sounds so damn serious, like this is a matter of national security, and this time, when they laugh, it’s brighter. 

“Come, dearheart,” Nat says then and stands, easing Eden up to their feet alongside her, an arm curling around their waist, tucking them neatly against her. “We should get you back to bed, you need rest.”

“But what about the mess?”

“I will tend to it,” Ava says, pushing to her feet as well and stepping away from the table, already on her way toward the broom and dustpan leaning beside the fridge. “Nat is correct, you should rest.”

They try to protest, craning their head to look over their shoulder as Nat leads them out of the kitchen and into the darkened den. “Are you sure? I mean, I can help, it’s my fault they’re all over the floor.”

“No need, I will see to this and join you both shortly.” Her tone makes it clear that there will be no more said on the matter and so, for once, Eden gives in. “Get some rest, _mea vita_.”

Eden feels their cheeks heat, but this time, for an entirely different reason; seriously, who gave Ava the right to break out the fancy Latin? It’s almost as bad as the few times Nat says stuff in… what is it, Sanskrit? They’re not sure, but whatever language it is, it’s fucking beautiful.

Nat walks them through the den and up the stairs, long legs matching their own waddling pace. She is so patient with them — they both are, really — and Eden hates putting this extra burden on them, making them worry and deal with their own insecurities. They know the vows sort of covered that, _for better or worse_ and all that, but even so, they just feel… guilty.

“Thank you, for… you know,” they mumble, eyes sliding toward the wall, where pictures of their ever growing family reside. Them in silly poses, Nat gorgeous and beaming, and Ava beautiful in her own stoic way, even cracking a smile in a few of them.

“There is no need to thank either of us,” Nat says, head turning to drop a kiss atop their head, and they can feel her lips curving into a smile. “We love you, dearheart. You need never feel alone, so long as we draw breath.”

“Keep saying stuff like that, and I’m gonna be a blubbering mess all over again.”

She chuckles and Eden leans further into her, head resting against her shoulder. The remaining trek back to the bedroom is silent after that, both content to merely enjoy one another’s company, and for the first time in a long while, they feel peaceful, content.

Think to themselves that, so long as they have these two extraordinary women by their side, maybe this whole thing won’t crash and burn around them, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and/or comments are appreciated! I'm also on [tumblr!](https://elmshore.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Also!! We're here, half way through the challenge! I'm shocked I've made it to day 20, but thank you all so much for being here with me!


	21. an eternity (nat/ava/nb detective)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Day 21: Trust) When the time comes to turn Eden, Ava knows she must be the one to do it.
> 
> Note: 'fae clinician' was coined by the amazing [Ejunkiet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ejunkiet/pseuds/Ejunkiet), go check out their works, they are _fantastic_.

The room, she thinks, is far too cold. 

Or, perhaps, the cold is within her? Gripped by a fear she cannot fathom, cannot wrestle under control, a chill skittering up and down her spine, filling her veins with ice. She knew this day would come — discussions were had, plans were made — and yet as she stands here, in this too cold room, she finds herself unprepared.

For what is about to happen, for what she must do, for what it will mean not just for herself, but for the ones she cares about the most. 

A hand slides into hers, fingers lacing through her own, and all at once, warmth blossoms through her. Banishes the frost in her veins and Ava expels a shaky sigh, glancing down to find Eden staring up at her, gray eyes shining with concern.

“Doing okay?” Their voice is unusually quiet, lacking in its typical vibrancy, and she realizes they are no doubt feeling the weight of their decision. Eden moves closer, pressing into her side, and Ava squeezes their hand, needing the contact just as much as they do. “Kinda cold in here, huh? Feels like I’m in a hospital or something,” they laugh, but it sounds wrong; tight and strained, almost forced.

“We _are_ in the medical wing,” Ava replies, attempting to keep her tone light, but she can hear the quiver in her words and it is a strange feeling, this dread coiling in the pit of her stomach like a viper ready to strike. 

Footsteps then, quick and light across the linoleum floor, and she turns, just as Nat hurries into the room. She looks off, frazzled even, and it is a state Ava is unused to seeing the other woman in; her dark brown hair, normally styled so neat, looks unkempt and it is easy to see that she has been running her hands through it, working the strands out of place. Even her clothes are out of sorts, wrinkled and creased from constant fussing. 

She is worried enough for the three of them, and Ava fears that she may not make it through the day, that this could break her, shatter her entirely, if it goes poorly.

“I am so sorry,” Nat says, her words a rush as she joins them, taking her place beside Eden, fingers stretching out to brush aside a few stray locks of strawberry blonde hair, “I was making sure Sparrow was settled with your mother.”

“Nah, you’re fine,” Eden chuckles, reaching up with their free hand to take hold of Nat’s, thumb gliding across her knuckles, “you didn’t miss anything. Is he okay? What’d you tell him?”

They had, all three of them, agreed that Sparrow would be kept far away during this process. At six years of age, he is too young to fully comprehend what would be happening, and none of them wish to see him hurt, or upset. 

No, best that he remains with his grandmother for now.

“I told him that — ” Nat draws in a wobbly breath, steadying herself, “I told him that we were going to be busy with boring adult tasks, and he seemed happy, to be excluded from such things,” she explains, attempting a smile that fails to fully reach her eyes. Then, she frowns and begins to shrug out of her jacket, “Love, you look cold, here, put this on.”

Eden allows Nat to wrap them in her coat, standing still as she tucks the collar around their neck, bundling them up until they are practically swallowed by the piece. “Thanks, Natarino,” they mumble, muffled by the fabric in-front of their mouth, and Ava feels her lips twitch at the sight.

Another voice fills the room then, loud and bright, and Ava sighs, any sign of a smile vanishing instantly.

“Hey! We didn’t miss the party, did we?” Felix calls, bounding into the room, and behind him follows Mason, looking particularly sullen — more so than usual, at least — and finally, Elidor. Without missing a beat, Mason makes a beeline for the chairs on the other side of the room and finds himself a perch, hands stuffed into his pockets. Felix, however, lingers near the doorway and despite the smile on his face, Ava can make out the shimmer of worry in those amber eyes.

Everyone, it seems, is on edge today, and for good reason.

“Nope! Party hasn’t started yet,” Eden replies, looking a little more at ease now and Ava knows it comforts them, to have so many people around, to know they are not alone. “You didn’t bring any balloons?”

“Felix, Eden,” Nat snaps, tone abnormally sharp, “please, do not joke about this, either of you.”

The taller woman is shaking now, muscles tense and shoulders drawn in tight, and Ava reacts out of instinct, her need to protect overwhelming. She moves, closing the distance between them, and lays her hand against Nat’s arm, rubbing it gently. Says nothing, but then, there is no reason to; Nat understands, centuries of time spent together ensures that there is never a need for words between them.

“Agent Hauville, if you insist on acting in this manner, I will remove you from the room,” Elidor warns, the stocky fae striding past the younger vampire and toward the three huddled in the middle, his blue hair tied back into a simple bun. 

“Aw, I was just trying to lighten the mood a bit,” Felix grumbles, shoe scuffing at the floor before he quickly bounces after Mason, tossing Eden a wink along the way, that grin sliding back into place. “But don’t worry, I’ll get you a million balloons when this is all over!”

“Yeah,” Mason scoffs, hunched in on himself, “I’ll bet the Agency will love seeing _that_ on their monthly expense report.”

Elidor looks ready to toss _both_ of them out, and it is a sentiment Ava shares. The fae clinician — a title Eden finds tremendously funny, and uses whenever possible — opts not to respond, however, and focuses his attention on Eden, gold eyes crinkling at the edges as he smiles, expression gentle. “How are you, Detective?” 

Still burrowed deep within Nat’s jacket, Eden lifts an arm and throws him a thumbs up. “Doing great, Doc,” they claim, even as Ava can hear their heart pounding, thudding away in their chest, beating against the ribs erratically. “So, when this is all over and I’m a certified vampire, do I get a sucker for being so brave?”

“If you want, I will be happy to give you one,” Elidor says, playing along with their teasing, “but I think you’ll find that candy will be low on your list of needs.”

“I mean, you could always give me a _blood sucker_.”

Off to the side, Felix lets out a loud bark of laughter and even Mason snorts, both obviously enjoying the awful pun. Nat, however, looks close to fainting and she reaches for Ava, fingers curling around her bicep for support.

“Eden,” Ava warns, tone low, “please, you must take this seriously.”

Her wife sighs, quite clearly put off by the lack of amusement from either Ava or Nat, but nods all the same. “Sorry,” they mumble, offering a sheepish smile as their focus shifts to Nat. Their hand slides around her, settles at her lower back, and begins to draw semi-circles, an attempt at comfort. “Nat, babe, you gotta relax. I’m gonna be fine, I promise.”

It is a false promise, one that cannot be guaranteed; empty, hollow words meant only to placate.

“I know, love,” Nat whispers, each word spoken with greater difficulty, and Ava fears that she may cry again, but no tears fall, even as her eyes shine with them. She stares at Eden, brown eyes drifting over their face, and she cups their cheek; brushes her thumb over their nose, across their lips, and along their jaw, and Ava knows what she is doing, because she has done it herself.

She is memorizing them. Imprinting every inch of them onto her mind, her soul, so that no matter what happens a piece of them shall always remain a part of her.

Eden lifts a hand to cover Nat’s with their own and smiles, a soft expression, nothing like their usual grin. They say nothing, and Ava cannot be sure of what unspoken words pass between them, only that Nat closes the gap between them. Takes their face in both of her hands and kisses them, as if she were drowning and they were the air she needed to breathe, to survive. Pulls back, forehead pressed against their own, and whispers something in Sanskrit, a language Eden has no knowledge of but adores all the same.

_My heart, my soul, do not abandon me. Come back to me, my love, do not leave me in the dark without your light._

“I love you too,” Eden tells her, understanding the emotion if not the words, and Nat smiles. Kisses them again — on the lips, across both cheeks, and on their forehead, every inch she can reach — and with terrible reluctance, steps away. Drops her hands back to her sides, trembling, and turns to face Ava, who holds her gaze as steadily as she can.

Copper meets emerald and oh, how Ava knows those eyes well. Has looked into them for years beyond counting, seeking comfort and peace within their warm depths even when she could not yet recognize it. And she does so now, again, chasing the courage that seems to have abandoned her.

Fingertips ghost across her cheek, delicate in their touch, and Ava leans into it, draws strength from her, this woman who has withstood so much tragedy in her three hundred years. “You do not need to do this,” Nat says softly, and the pain in her voice is like a lance through Ava’s heart, “you do not need to take this burden onto your shoulders, _mon cœur_.”

“It is no burden,” Ava tells her and it is the truth, even as she longs to run from this room, from this duty she has assigned herself. Stands her ground, and says, “But it must be me, it has to be me.”

The discussion of who would be the one to turn Eden had been a long and arduous one, full of heated words and high emotions. Nat refused to do it, vehemently opposed being the one responsible for stealing what is, in her eyes, the greatest gift a person can have — their humanity. And even if she were willing, there are the issues concerning blood; the act is not about feeding, though the two can certainly go hand in hand, but there _is_ blood, if only a drop or two.

She may have agreed to this, but there is only so far Nat will go, before her boundaries are reached.

Of course, Felix and Mason were valid options, but Ava could never ask this of them. They are her family, and she knows how deeply they each care for Eden, she will not force them to carry this weight, to shoulder the grief should this end… badly. And she is, naturally, aware that the Agency has measures in place for these situations; that it employs vampires specifically for this, but such an idea is unthinkable to her.

No, she will not entrust this matter to a stranger, to someone who does not know Eden, or how precious they are.

It must be her, then.

Losing Eden would devastate her, she knows this — knew it from the moment she first laid eyes on them all those years ago in that tiny station and felt that long-forgotten stirring in her heart — but, shamefully, Ava also knows she would survive the loss. She has spent nine hundred years learning how to cope with grief, to compartmentalize it and make it a part of herself, wall it off and move on. 

But Nat has never been good at that; she feels too deeply, gives too much of herself away, and she is a fierce woman, one who has stood the test of time and tragedy, but this would be too much. The guilt alone would kill her, never mind the grief that would eat away at her, fester in her like a sickness until she perished as well, fading away into nothing.

And she refuses to lose them both.

“Are we ready to begin?” 

Elidor, silent until this point, glances between them and his words are spoken carefully, treading softly. “If you need more time, I can — ”

“No,” Ava replies briskly, swallowing down the remaining doubt that fills her throat, choking out the rest of her words, “no, we are ready.”

They are, none of them, ready, but there is no sense in delaying this further; a moment longer, and Ava fears she will lose what nerve still remains in her. She looks to Nat, and then to Eden, at these two who have become her entire world, a piece of her heart residing within both of them. She _must_ be ready, for their sake, if nothing else.

Nat inhales, a deep quivering breath, and nods, body trembling once more. She reaches for them both — thumb sweeping across Eden’s cheek, fingers brushing a lock of blonde hair behind Ava’s ear — and then she is pulling away, distancing herself from them with a wide step. Her mouth opens, but no words come and it snaps shut, her lips thinning before she turns. Long legs carry her to where Felix and Mason are sitting and when she joins them, hands gripping the seat of her chair, both men seem to lean into her, the need to protect her drawing them closer.

“So,” Eden draws out the word, rocking back and forth on their heels, restless now from their nerves, “how are we doing this? Do we stand or?”

“I would suggest sitting,” Elidor says, gesturing toward the small bed on the other side of the room, “the transition can be quite painful, and many have found sitting down to be easier, when the… effects take hold. You _have_ been told the effects, yes?”

“Oh yeah, intense pain and possible death,” they answer and their tone is casual, as if they were merely discussing the weather, but Ava can hear their pulse racing, spiking especially high on the last word. “I think Mason called it a Russian roulette,” Eden adds and the dark haired vampire scoffs, quickly avoiding Nat’s glare.

Elidor frowns, obviously sensing their distress, and steps closer, all but towering over Eden. “This is your final chance, Eden,” he tells them, brows pinched in concern, “once the process begins, there is no stopping it. The venom will enter your system, and there will be nothing to do but wait.” _And hope_ , the words hang in the air between them, unspoken but heard all the same.

Ava watches as they stand a little straighter, expression serious. “No, I’ve made my decision, and I’m standing by it,” Eden states and she recognizes that tone, knows all too well that there will be no arguing or compromising.

They are a stubborn one, her wife.

The fae seems to realize this as well and merely sighs, pointing toward the bed. “Then go and make yourselves comfortable,” he commands and turns, looking toward the open door, “I have a team on hand, ready to assist in whatever way we can, but as I said, there will be little we can do overall.”

“Thank you, Doctor, we appreciate your help,” Ava manages, each word like jagged glass on her tongue, and begins the short trek to the bed, aware of Eden following close behind. It is a tiny thing, more a cot than a true bed, but in this moment it appears ominous; large and foreboding, like some great beast lying in wait, ready to devour them whole. 

_Foolish_ , a voice in her mind hisses and she is quick to shake the thought away — it is a piece of furniture, nothing more — before taking a seat on the bed. Eden goes to sit beside her, but Ava stops them, fingers curling around their wrist. “No,” she says, and the words are a little easier, when it is them, “it will be easier, if I can hold you.”

A selfish request, she knows; holding the person will do little to ease the transition, or the process, but Ava finds that she _needs_ this, to feel them in her arms.

When they nod, she twists away and pulls her legs up, scooting back on the bed until she feels herself bump against the wall. Eden joins her, climbing onto the cot and straddling her, knees bracketed on either side of her thighs. This is familiar, the weight of them atop her, and Ava finds that it soothes her, in a way she cannot fully explain; only that like this, she can feel the heat of them, each rhythmic beat of their heart, and she reaches for them, sliding off the jacket until it falls, pooling around their middle.

Her hands settle at their waist, curling under the ribs, and Ava leans forward, focuses on their scent alone — fresh cut peonies and a light hint of lemon, sweet and tart and so uniquely _Eden_ — and allows it to fill her senses, to steady her nerves. Feels fingers wrap around her shoulders, gripping tight, and she uses the touch as an anchor, to ground herself.

And just before her, that throat beckons; freckled and bare, so very delicate. Ava tips her head forward, buries her face in the hollow of their neck, and goes still, paralyzed by a fear that ricochets through her, floods her veins and leaves her frozen. She can hear their blood, flowing just underneath the skin, and it calls to her, appealing to her basest of natures. A thought occurs to her then, one she has spent weeks denying: what if she is not strong enough?

It is a nightmare that has visited her, time and again, replaying in her mind like a broken record, and it terrifies her, as nothing ever has before. To turn someone requires only a quick bite — long enough to inject the venom — but Ava knows that there will be no escaping their blood, and what if she is powerless against the pull of it? 

She could drain them in a matter of minutes, take the very life from them without even meaning to, and it would be so easy, too easy to just — 

Those warm hands move, sliding up and resting against her cheeks, holding her face with a tenderness that makes Ava’s heart ache. Eden tilts her head back, so they can look at her, and when they smile, it is so staggeringly gentle.

“Ava,” Eden whispers, leaning into her, their lips brushing against her own in a phantom kiss. “It’s okay, I love you,” a pause, followed by another kiss that sends a shiver of want zigzagging down her spine, “and I trust you.”

The words settle in her chest, like flowers putting down roots, and Ava can feel her heart thundering in her chest, a monstrous thing rattling against the cage of her ribs. 

There is so much she wishes to say. Words rise in her throat like steam, but turn to ash on her tongue, bitter and useless and all she can do is choke them back down. Ava makes a sound deep in her chest, something caught halfway between a whine and a moan, and if she cannot tell them, then she will show them.

Her mouth finds theirs, lips rolling together and parting, a tongue slicking over her own. The taste of them — blueberries and ginger — floods through her, a cloying flavor, heady and sweet that has her head swimming. Ava pours all that she is into the kiss, every word she cannot say and Eden answers in kind, meets her fiercely and openly. Here, in her arms, they feel so small; so easily broken by her and yet, still they are with her.

Willing, even, to risk it all.

Eden leans out of the kiss and smiles, their hands returning to Ava’s shoulders. “I’m ready,” they tell her, voice steady and calm, and though their heart races, Ava can hear the truth in those words. They _are_ ready, and now, she must be as well.

She drops one last kiss to their lips, lingers for only a moment and then her mouth is traveling down. Ava is careful to avoid the spot where Murphy’s scar once sat, now nearly invisible from time and healing; her greatest failure, gone from sight but never from mind.

Nails prick at her skin, dull yet present through the fabric of her shirt, and she hums, sliding her arms around their middle, hands splaying open across their lower back. Eden cocks their head, allowing Ava a better vantage, and this is it, the invitation, the last step before there is no turning back. They feel strange, her fangs; so rarely does she use them, having no need to resort to such things during a fight, but they are a part of her always.

And she hates to use them in this manner — to use them at all, really — but they free themselves easily, venom at the ready.

Time seems to slow around them as she hesitates, sharp teeth only inches from their throat. Ava can hear everything, every little sound, but she blocks them out; focuses only on Eden, on the pinging of their pulse and their quiet, shaky breaths. She murmurs an apology, so soft she doubts they will hear it, and in a moment of rash clarity, she bites.

It is instantaneous, her venom — this is its whole purpose, the very reason it exists at all — and all it takes is a moment, to leave her fangs and enter their bloodstream, but that is more than enough time for the taste to coat her tongue.

Eden tastes of bright, summer afternoons. Apple blossoms and citrus, vibrant and warm and alive. Ava has never experienced anything like this richness, a flavor that exists nowhere else; it is Eden, their love and joy and every little thing in between, both good and bad and flawed and perfect, absolutely perfect. But more than anything, past all of that, they taste like _home_ ; a belonging, a soft place to land, and when Ava tears herself away, the task done and her fangs retracting, she feels like weeping.

This person in her arms is the one she has waited nine hundred years for, the other half of her soul, and she hopes — prays, to whoever might take pity on her — that she has not doomed them.

With the flavor of them still on her tongue, Ava pulls back and frowns, arms still locked around their waist. Eden is so very still, eyes closed and breath jittery, their grip on her shoulders loose. She knows that everyone reacts to the venom differently; in some, the effect is immediate, and in others, delayed, and of course, the mutation in their blood throws all convention out the window. “ _Mea vita_ ,” she whispers, fingers pressing into the dip of their back, “talk to me, Eden.”

Eyes the color of morning fog open, blinking, and Eden stares at her. “I feel warm,” they mutter, tapping a little beat against the back of Ava’s shoulders, “but I don’t feel any — ” their words are swallowed by a broken cry as they begin to convulse, seizures rattling through them. 

Distantly, Ava can hear Nat let out a gasp, but she pays it no mind; her attention is only on Eden, on holding them close, trying as best she can to keep them from falling apart. Hands grasp at her shoulders, forming fists and beating, pain overwhelming them, but through it all Eden is silent, save for little croaks of distress, dry and strained and each one like a knife to the heart.

“I am here, _cor meum_ ,” she soothes, lips next to their ear as they fight against her hold and she knows the venom is doing its job, raging through their veins like a wildfire and it will either change them, or destroy them.

And then it is over. They go slack, falling forward in her arms and Ava cradles them close, their head under her chin. She can hear their heart pause and for one awful moment, it is still, quiet, but then it is beating again, steady and sure and she feels something hot prick at the corner of her eyes. Against her, Eden stirs, movements sluggish and she hears them groan, burying their face in the crook of her neck.

“That hurt like a bitch,” they grumble, and Ava cannot help but laugh, a watery sound that rumbles out of her throat. Eden grunts and shakes their head, pressing closer. “Not so loud, why is everything so loud?”

“You will need time to adjust,” Ava says, careful to keep her tone low, and she can hear Nat approaching, her pace quiet and slow. She looks at her other wife, now next to the bed, and offers her a smile, relief shining in that ochre gaze.

Nat reaches for Eden, lays her hand against their head and smiles, fingers threading through their hair. She says nothing, only seems to bask in the presence of them both, and Ava looks toward the others, still sitting on the far side of the room. Felix gives her a thumbs up and Mason only studies them, face neutral but she can see the easy way he holds himself, can tell that he is happy in his own way at the outcome.

“They will need to feed, soon, and I would recommend that they do so _before_ seeing Sparrow,” Elidor offers, and Ava can hear the smile in his words, his own relief obvious. “But for now, we should give them some time,” he adds, this time to Felix and Mason, who are both quick to stand, even Felix giving no resistance to the idea.

One by one, they file out of the room. Mason is the last to leave — lingers a moment, gaze flicking toward them briefly — and he shuts the door behind him quietly, leaving them in silence.

Ava knows this is only one hurdle they have accomplished, more work yet lies ahead of them; Eden _will_ need to feed, and their lives will need adjusting, never mind what they will tell Sparrow. But, for now, none of that matters — what matters is that Eden is still here, alive and with them, and they have an eternity to figure out the rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and/or comments are appreciated! I'm also on [tumblr!](https://elmshore.tumblr.com/)


	22. our little secret (mason + orion watson)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Day 22: Window) Mason makes a little deal with his son.

He is in the kitchen, trying to figure out what the hell he’s going to do about Orion’s lunch — _this_ close to just saying ‘fuck it’ and ordering the kid something instead — when he hears it, the sound slicing through the air like a knife. 

A deafening crash, sharp and sudden and shattering. 

Mason curses, a harsh sound of his own, and immediately, he is on high alert; hackles raised, nerves jittery and on edge. His mind flashes to Orion, who is _supposed_ to be playing in the den, and the thought of his son is enough to have him moving, long legs carrying him out of the kitchen and through the dining room, any and all concerns over lunch now forgotten.

When he reaches the den, it is empty, no sign or sight of the boy and for a moment — one awful, terrible moment — Mason feels a cold, jagged spike of dread coil tight in his chest. It furls around his heart, clamps down, and he snarls; clenches his hands, hard as he can, and focuses on the ache of blunt nails pricking into his palms. 

Through the haze of worry and pain, another sound reaches him — familiar and welcome, a soothing _pitter-patter_ that has his muscles relaxing, relief sweeping through him.

Orion.

He turns, in the direction of the noise, and spies the large bay window just ahead. A small rock-shaped hole rests near the bottom of the right side pane, glass scattered across the cushioned seat resting just beneath it, and there, amongst the debris, is the culprit; a black stone, one he recognizes as belonging in the little garden Cordelia made for the kids to play in. And, just on the other side, is Orion; he’s outside, in the front yard, and even from this distance, Mason can see him clearly.

 _What the fuck is he doing out there_? He’d told the kid to stay in here, to play with his toys or color or whatever the hell he wanted, while Mason figured out something for lunch. 

Deciding to ignore the mess for now, Mason cuts through the den and toward the front door, opening it with a heavy sigh. Of course this happens when his wife _isn’t_ here. Cordelia left this morning, along with the twins, to go and visit her grandparents for the weekend — the plan had originally been for _all_ of them to go, but then Orion got sick and Mason opted to stay with him, rather than cancel the whole thing — so it’s just him and the kid.

And a broken window now, apparently.

It’s early winter, so the air outside is chilly and Mason fights to suppress a shiver, quickly grabbing his jacket off the rack near the door. He tugs it on and steps outside, hurrying toward Orion who, he notes with annoyance, _doesn’t_ have his own jacket on.

Orion watches him approach, hazel-gold eyes wide and a little nervous. His cheeks are rosy, no doubt from the nip in the air, and even the tip of his nose is red — though that could be from the fact he’s been sneezing and rubbing at it non-stop since Thursday night. The kid turns, hands clasped together, and Mason scowls; he’s not even wearing gloves, for fuck’s sake.

And neither is he, but that’s not the point.

“You’re not supposed to be out here,” he says, once he’s close enough for the other to hear, and he slows to a halt, hands stuffed into his pockets, trying desperately to keep warm. _At least it’s not snowing… yet_ , he groans, once again cursing the fact winter even has to exist.

“I know,” Orion mumbles and his voice is scratchy, rough from the recent coughing spells, “but, I saw a pretty bird and I wanted to come say hello.”

Mason scoffs and hunkers down, resting on his haunches. “You could have said hi through the window,” he points out, even if the idea of greeting a bird at all seems ridiculous to him — the kid is _definitely_ Cordelia’s son. “You’re sick, you should be inside,” he adds, ignoring the fact that realistically, the boy should be in bed. And he had been, until he got bored and started begging to go downstairs and play.

 _Serves me right for giving in to his demands_ , Mason muses. He used to be so good, at telling people no, and to be fair he still is, just not _certain_ people now.

“She couldn’t hear me through the window,” Orion argues, as if it’s just common knowledge and Mason is an idiot for thinking otherwise. “Mama says when you tell people hello, you have to smile too, and if I was inside, she wouldn’t be able to see me smiling.”

“Right.” It’s all Mason says because, really, what else is there to say?

Instead, he looks toward the broken window and then back to Orion, only now noticing the dirt covering his hands. Mason pulls his own out of his pockets and reaches for the boy, fingers curling around his small wrists and tugging him forward gently, doing his best not to wince at how cold his skin feels. “What’s all this?” He asks and turns the hands over, palms up, checking for any scratches or cuts.

“Miss Bird flew away, when I came out to say hello,” Orion explains, rocking back and forth on his feet, shivering all the while, “so I was tending to the garden, since Mama isn’t here.”

“And the window?”

“Oh!” Orion seems to change direction now, swaying side to side, a lock of black hair falling into his face. “I picked up a rock, but it had a nasty old bug on it, so I wanted to throw it far away, right?” He pauses, waiting, and so Mason nods, which seems to satisfy him. “But, I think I’m too strong, because it went _too_ far.” And even though the idea of an eight year old being ‘too strong’ is enough to make Mason laugh, he swallows it down; he’ll do it later, once the kid is out of earshot.

The boy leans in closer then and Mason sees a flash of fear in those bright eyes, the ones just like his mothers. “I’m sorry, Papa,” he whispers, in a trembling tone, “I didn’t mean to break the window, please don’t be mad.”

He probably should be mad, because now he’s got to call someone to come out and fix it — preferably _before_ Cordelia gets home — but, he’s not.

“I’m not mad,” Mason soothes, letting go of Orion’s wrists as he stands only to bend down, sweeping the boy into his arms, “but next time you want to come outside and say hi to a bird, maybe let me know first? Kind of rude, just leaving without saying anything.”

“I promise,” Orion swears, and he sounds so solemn that Mason can feel the corner of his mouth twitching. “Are you going to tell Mama?”

Mason frowns, pivoting on his heel and begins the trek back to the house, wanting to get them both out of the cold. Ponders the question for a moment before he shakes his head and says, “Tell you what, you promise to stay in bed for the rest of the day, and I’ll keep this our little secret, deal?”

“Deal!”

“Good, now let’s get inside before we both freeze to death,” Mason grumbles, pace quickening as the boy in his arms giggles, holding on tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and/or comments are appreciated! I'm also on [tumblr!](https://elmshore.tumblr.com/)


	23. all that matters is this (morgan/female detective)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Day 23: Decay) Rhea is terrible at taking care of plants, and Morgan isn't up for a certain discussion.
> 
> Warning: The topic of death and suicide is implied in this chapter, the word 'suicide' is not used but please be careful and take care of yourselves!

The apartment is quiet and still, awash in the soft glow of early morning — slivers of sunlight cascading in through the cracks in her blinds — as Rhea makes her way silently toward the kitchen, padding along the carpet with bare feet. 

She yawns, clamping a hand over her mouth in an attempt to muffle the sound, and then lifts her arms high above her head, stretching until she hears that wonderful little _pop_ in her lower back. Probably a good thing she’s alone, popping any bone in her body seems to be some sort of taboo in the eyes of Wayhaven; she’s lost count of how many times Verda has scolded her about it, and even the vampire’s hate it!

Morgan _especially_ bitches about it, which is why Rhea is extra careful to do it a bunch whenever the other woman is around, just to see her shudder.

Normally, Rhea wouldn’t be caught dead being awake at this hour on her day _off_ , but for some reason her mind decided she just needed to be up _now_ and now just happened to be a quarter past six, so here she is: shambling into the kitchen to fix a pot of coffee, dressed in her _very_ fashionable pajamas — a pair of shorts covered in cartoon llamas and a tank-top with a cowboy-hat wearing llama — and with a bird’s nest for hair, the brown locks tangled and wild and totally _not_ her concern right now.

Rhea enters the kitchen, shivering when her feet hit the cool linoleum floor, and quickly flicks on the lights. Heads straight for the counter, where her trusty coffee machine sits, waiting patiently for her, and sets to work. She is halfway through the normal routine, grabbing the pot and turning to the sink to fill it with water, when she notices them. 

Four little plants in a neat little row atop her window sill, all of them gifts from Tina, and typically, she ignores them. 

Or rather, she _forgets_ about them. 

Not on purpose, mind, it’s just with so much going on — between work and dealing with supernaturals and now kinda-sorta dating — she doesn’t have time to devote to tending to plants. And it seems that finally, her lack of proper care has taken its toll; one of the little things is dead, wilted and brown, and two more are on their way, drooping pathetically.

Setting the pot down, Rhea sighs and reaches for the dead plant, fingertips brushing along one of the decaying leaves, not surprised to find it brittle, crumbling under her touch. “Looks like you’ve had a rough time of it,” she mutters and leans back, hands curling under the countertop, “guess I wasn’t a very good plant mom, huh?” Though to be fair, she’s _never_ really had a green thumb, so this is hardly a shocking outcome.

Ever since childhood, Rhea’s loved plants; adores the smells and colors, the way they can persevere in the harshest of conditions — even grass, which she’d never cared much about until she spent close to an hour listening to David Attenborough talk about it — and how they always seem to come back, year after year.

It’s always been a thing, people not coming back, and so it’s nice, to have _something_ to depend on.

Sadly, plants have never seemed to like her. Even when she tries — and she does, when she can remember — they never last long, and it’s like she’s cursed or something. _Maybe I am_ , she muses, because with the way her life’s been going lately, she wouldn’t be surprised. Death has been a consistent part of her life for the better part of twenty-nine years, and it doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to move on, pun fucking intended.

And she tries not to think about it, really she does. Rhea has always lived her life ‘in the moment’ and been content to let things flow as they will, learned early on that worrying over everything solves nothing, but lately, well… it’s been harder to stick to that philosophy.

Between winding up as some rogue vampire’s chew toy — and her fingers itch now, desperate to rub at the scar on her wrist — to all of the other crazy shit that’s gone down, Rhea’s more surprised that _she_ isn’t dead. 

Yet.

 _I will be one day_ , she thinks, before she can stop herself. The idea of dying has never been a huge deal for her — for a brief time she even welcomed it, chased after it — but now? It haunts her, lingers at the back of her mind like a sickly shadow and taunts her, constantly. Because before, she had nothing to really lose; few friends, no job, and hell, might as well say no family either, but now things are… different.

Gray eyes flit through her mind and Rhea smiles, despite herself. Neither of them really meant to end up here, with actual feelings, but what started as something simple and casual — no strings, only fun — turned complicated, then romantic, and well, jokes on them. Because now she’s in love, goddamnit.

Rhea hates goodbyes, more than anything in this world, and the idea of saying goodbye to Morgan is… well, it fucking sucks. She never wants to say it, never wants to see the pain in those storm-colored eyes, never — 

Arms wind around her middle like vines and something oh so warm presses against her, solid and familiar, and she jumps. Soft lips drag across the bottom of her neck, followed by a draft of hot breath, and it sends little eruptions skittering up and down her spine. Hands settle against her stomach and Rhea moves her own to cover them, fingers lacing together, heart swelling when she feels a little squeeze in return.

“You’re going to give me a heart attack doing that, sunshine,” Rhea murmurs, but she can’t quite keep the smile out of her voice.

“Good,” Morgan hums, her own voice thick from sleep, and Rhea feels the other woman sag, cheek squished up against her back, “it’s what you get, for leaving me alone in a cold bed.”

She almost counters that it’s the middle of August, which means it is most definitely _not_ cold, but Rhea knows better than to say that and besides, Morgan tends to run cold anyway; always complaining about the chill, using it as an excuse to huddle closer or cuddle whenever she can, sometimes stealing Rhea’s jackets to burrow into.

Not that she ever minds, of course.

Instead, Rhea laughs and cranes her head around, trying to see the woman now attached to her. “Sorry, I was trying not to wake you,” she says, laughing harder when Morgan grumbles something incoherent, words muffled in her shirt.

For a moment, they are content to stand here, in comfortable silence together and Rhea finds that this, above all else, is what she enjoys the most about this strange new relationship of theirs. Oh, the sex is wonderful, of course — the best she’s ever had, to be honest — but it’s more than that, it’s the little things. The companionship, in _and_ out of bed; someone to talk to who actually listens, someone to laugh at stupid shows with, someone to come home to at the end of the day and just be herself with, no need to always be on.

Morgan is happy with _her_ , flaws and cracks and all.

A tanned arm, littered with tiny starbursts, stretches out from around her and pokes at the dead plant, Morgan leaning to the left to get a better view. “What happened to this?” She asks, and Rhea snorts, shaking her head.

“I killed another one, apparently,” Rhea replies, sighing as she plucks the little ceramic pot off the sill, turning it over carefully in her hands, “maybe I should arrest myself for plant murder,” she muses, as behind her, Morgan snorts, the sound loud enough to reverberate through her.

“Nah, just toss it out,” Morgan says, now poking at the wilting plants left on the sill, “I’ll even be nice and help you dispose of the evidence, besides,” her voice drops then, turning husky in a way that has Rhea swaying, “I’ll be happy to provide you with a rock solid alibi.”

The offer is tempting — _very_ tempting — but Rhea resists, for now, and merely puts the pot on the counter, to deal with later. Knows she’ll need to buy another one just like it to replace the thing, so Tina won’t get all upset. “Hey, Morgan, can I ask you something?”

“If you’re going to ask if we can go back to bed,” Morgan rumbles, leaving a trail of kisses along the backs of her shoulders, “then the answer is always yes, sweetheart.”

Rhea scoffs, the sound somehow affectionate, and turns, shuffling around in Morgan’s hold so that she can face the shorter woman. Feels her grin widen at the sight that greets her; Morgan looks fresh out of bed, her dark hair a messy halo around that beautiful, lean face and dressed in one of Rhea’s old shirts, a large thing that hangs to her thighs, leaving those toned legs enticingly bare. She reaches for her, hands settling at those freckled hips, and chuckles.

“Not to change the topic, but doesn’t this,” Rhea whispers, picking at the hem of the shirt, “belong to me? Were you raiding my closet again, sunshine?”

“You wish,” Morgan huffs, but the corner of her lips twitch in a tell-tale sign, “it was just the first thing I saw so I grabbed it, wasn’t in the mood to hear anymore bitching from that hag who lives in the building across from you,” she rolls her eyes at the memory, clearly not over it. “Not my fault she was spying at the fucking window.”

“To be fair, you were walking around my apartment naked.” And to be doubly fair, she _did_ forget to close the blinds that day.

“Yeah, and she should be grateful she got to see an ass as fine as mine,” Morgan retorts quickly, and Rhea can’t find it in her to argue since yeah, it is a damn fine ass.

She laughs and tilts down, dropping a light kiss to Morgan’s nose, enjoying the way the vampire wrinkles it in response. “Be careful,” Rhea teases, letting her hands slide down to rest against that very fine ass, “or I’ll have to arrest you for indecent exposure.”

“You say things like that,” Morgan purrs, raising up on her toes, their lips inches apart, “and I’ll expect you to follow through, sweetheart.”

Her kiss is slow, lazy even, and it is so easy, Rhea finds, to lose herself in it. In the taste of Morgan, the flavor of smoke and something earthen, rich like pine, and in the feel of her, that warm tongue slicking over her own and their bodies flush together. Would be easier still to move, to stumble back to the bedroom — or the couch, or maybe even the hallway — and indulge in the pleasure of her, in the sounds they can draw from one another, but that shadow still lingers in the back of her mind and she needs to know, needs to voice a question that has long been stuck in her throat.

When she breaks the kiss, Morgan is quick to divert her attention elsewhere and Rhea has to fight to swallow down a moan as that mouth, so very attentive and experienced, trails a blazing pathway down the column of her neck. Nimble fingers slide under her top, skimming over her abdomen and up, brushing against the bottom of her breasts when she reacts, mind hazy and movements sluggish. 

Rhea catches Morgan’s arms at the elbow, wraps her hands around them and tugs them down, shaking her head. “I still have that question,” she pants, breath shallow and cheeks burning, filled with a heat she knows all too well.

“Pretty sure it can wait,” Morgan sighs, nipping at the crook of Rhea’s neck in a way that has the taller woman whining, “we’ve got other things to uh, _discuss_ right now.”

“No, Morgan, please,” Rhea pleads and she’s not sure what does it, either the tone of her voice or the fact she’s begging at all — a rarity, outside of the bedroom — but Morgan stills and with great reluctance, peels away from her, rocking back onto her heels to look up, gray eyes glinting in the morning light.

The vampire says nothing, but Rhea knows by now that her silence is an invitation to speak, and before she can avoid the topic for the umpteenth time, she asks, “Do you ever think about death?”

Immediately, the mood in the room shifts. Morgan says nothing, but then, she doesn’t need to; her body speaks for her. She goes tense, arms falling from Rhea’s middle and she moves, until her back bumps against the little island counter. Those eyes narrow, studying her with a caution Rhea hasn’t seen in ages, and she crosses her arms tightly over her chest, mouth curling into a scowl, expression suddenly dark.

“Why are you asking?” The tone is sharp, a warning and an accusation, and Rhea almost slaps herself for being such a fool, because _of course_ Morgan would react this way after she decided to be honest and open up about her past issues.

“It’s not — I’m not,” Rhea stumbles over the words, raising her hands uselessly, dragging one over the nape of her neck, “it’s not about that, I swear, I’m not thinking of… I haven’t, I mean, not for a long time.” _Not since you arrived_ , she almost says, but thinks better of it. Chews up the words and forces them back down.

Morgan grunts, and it’s hard to tell if she believes her or not as she twists, reaching for the half-empty cigarette pack and lighter she left lying there the night before. Snatches them up, yanks one out of the pack, and then tosses it back onto the counter, shoving it between her lips. She lights it and the motion is slight, easily missed, but Rhea can see the way her hands shake, a pang of guilt stabbing through her heart. 

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” she whispers, and Morgan shakes her head, taking a long drag of the cigarette before she plucks it out of her mouth, clenching it tightly between her fingers. Exhales and a plume of smoke wafts between them, curling tendrils that seep into her skin, heavy and scorching. “Morgan, I — ”

“I don’t,” the vampire snaps, but there is something in her tone — quiet and raw and _soft_ — that knocks Rhea off-balance, the floor shifting under her feet. “I don’t think about you dying, or me, or _anyone_ , I just… don’t.”

There is a finality to her words, and Rhea almost drops it, lets it go and pulls her back in for another heart-stopping kiss, but she _can’t_. She hates it, loathes herself for it, but she keeps going anyway, because she needs to get it out. “I try not to, but it’s harder now,” she admits, leaning back against the sink and looking down, gaze sliding to her toes, each nail painted a bright sky blue. “I mean, I know I’m not supposed to, it’s part of the steps or whatever I’m supposed to follow but, I can’t help it, y’know?”

“Rhea — ”

“I’m going to die, Morgan,” she interjects, clasping her hands together, her grip so tight she can feel the marks her nails — painted the same brilliant blue — are leaving, little half-moon circles. “One day, either on a mission or on the job or by some stupid freaking accident, hell maybe I won’t die until I’m old and gray and wrinkly, but I am going to die and… I’m scared, not of the dying part but of,” Rhea sighs, tries to collect the words in her head and then, “I’m scared of saying goodbye.”

Morgan moves, quicker than her human eyes can ever hope to track, and suddenly she is there, in Rhea’s space, hands braced on the counter behind her. That cigarette is still locked between those long, tanned fingers, and spindly lines of smoke crawl upward, through the air beside her. And there is a look in those storm-colored eyes, dangerous and predatory and it makes her pulse jump.

“Stop it,” Morgan hisses and there is anger in that tone, yes, but also something else. Something Rhea thinks _might_ be fear, but she can’t be sure or maybe, she just isn’t ready to face that possibility yet. “You don’t want to say goodbye? Then fucking don’t, okay? Because all that matters right now is this moment, this day.” One of her hands moves, slides up and over Rhea’s arm, leaving little goosebumps in its wake. Slender fingers curl around the back of her throat and Morgan rises up on her toes, so close now Rhea can smell the smoke on her breath, fiery and intoxicating. “All that matters is you and me, sweetheart. The rest of that shit? It’s not important, not today, so don’t let it get into your head.”

“I know, but — ”

Lips crash against her own and Rhea is helpless against the wave that follows, smoke burning her tongue as she falls into the depths, loses herself completely to this moment. All she can do is hold on, hands grasping Morgan’s hips before they slide down, wrapping around the back of her thighs and lifting the vampire off the ground, legs closing around her waist. She hears Morgan growl, a thundering sound deep in her chest and it is like a jolt of electricity, straight through to her core.

It is a desperate kiss, teeth knocking together and tongues locked in battle, breath mingling, hot and wet and sticky over their cheeks. And Rhea knows that their discussion isn’t over, not really; one day, they’ll have to face the elephant looming in the room, just… not now.

Right now, she is content to focus only on the woman in her arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and/or comments are appreciated! I'm also on [tumblr!](https://elmshore.tumblr.com/)


	24. out of a box (felix + nb detective)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Day 24: Enchanted) Felix and Eden are working on an important task, when Felix asks a question he's had since the day he met them.

“If I ever see another star after today,” I mutter, painstakingly cutting out what must be the gazillionth star in the last hour, “I am going to lose my goddamn mind.”

“Aw, but the stars are what make the night sky so pretty,” Felix quips, words turning into a small cry as I reach out, slamming my heel against the side of his leg.

“Yeah, well, the night sky can go fuck itself.”

Across from me, Felix barks out a laugh that seems to fill the room and I glower over at him, about ready to throw the scissors in my hand at his head. I’m sure they wouldn’t hurt _too_ badly, he’s a vampire, he’ll heal. “Oh yeah, keep on laughing,” I grumble, leaning forward to deposit the finished star into his pile, “at least I’m not the one covered in glitter.”

“Hey,” Felix counters, offering me one of those award-winning smiles of his, “I think the glitter looks damn good on me, don’t you?”

“I think you look like you could outshine the whole Cullen family, Hauville.”

“I’ll take it!” Felix exclaims, puffing out his chest in a show of mock pride and I laugh, annoyance temporarily forgotten as I lean back, reaching for another piece of goldenrod — and wow, isn’t _that_ a stupid color name — construction paper, scissors at the ready. 

We’ve been at this task for the last two hours — and it’s a marvel, that either Felix and I have managed to sit still this long — and we’re both covered, head to toe, in glitter. And while it makes sense for him, since Felix gleefully chose glitter duty, it makes less sense for me to be practically drenched in the stuff, and the only explanation I can come up with is that glitter is pure evil and will infect everyone, and everything, it comes into contact with.

 _No wonder kids love it so much_ , I muse dryly, watching as Felix twists, examining the little tubes of the sparkly devilry as if this were the most crucial decision of his life — and it probably is, knowing Felix. “Try the green,” I suggest, and he nods, snatching it up and turning back around, popping the cap open.

“Excellent choice, Hollis!”

“Every choice I make is excellent, Hauville.”

He snorts, accidentally blowing a bit of glitter not fully glued to the star my way and I yelp, trying to scoot back as quickly as I can. “Hey, keep that stuff on your side of the line,” I snap, quickly checking to make sure none of the sticky particles actually got on me.

“If you hate glitter so much,” Felix drawls, sprinkling a bit of the stuff onto the star like he’s a master chef adding a dash of some special dish, “why’d you agree to do this anyway?”

I pause, mid-cut, and then shrug. “Didn’t have too much choice, the Captain volunteered the station to help with the local _Enchanted By You_ dance and well, who else was gonna do it? Verda banned all forms of glitter from being in his presence, after the Cara incident of ‘19, and well, if we asked Douglas to do it, it’d never get done.” 

“What about that pretty friend of yours?”

“Tina?” Now it’s my turn to laugh, because the very idea of _Tina Poname_ being tasked with this job is so outrageous I can hardly imagine it. “No, she’s not allowed to help with these sorts of things, not after the last time.”

Felix leans a little closer, amber eyes wide. “What happened last time?”

“She was supposed to help cut out hearts, for some valentine fundraiser,” I begin, tossing yet another stupid star into his pile, “she decided that it’d be better, to get a company in the city to just make them for her, except she messed up the number so we ended up with three thousand paper hearts just sitting in the station for months.”

The Captain had been _furious_ , which really only made it funnier because the whole time he spent yelling, he’d been standing against a backdrop of red and pink hearts. After that, he decreed that Tina could no longer be counted on for such things — her intended outcome, no doubt — and so now, whenever there’s any sort of event, it’s up to me to see it done. Oh, there were the volunteers of course; a couple of them were responsible this time for streamers, and others were busy getting food ready, but I usually ended up with the worst jobs.

Like cutting out enough stars to fill the fucking sky, for instance.

But at least this time, I had some help. Felix had been all too happy to help, so long as all he had to do was sit there and put glitter on stars, and well, it saved me a step, so hey I’d consider it a win. I asked Mason if he wanted to help, but he flat out refused — no surprise there — and both Nat and Ava were busy with other, supernatural things.

And I, like a good partner, pretended not to notice the look of relief in both of their eyes as they (kindly) turned me down. Which is fine, they’ll just have to deal with glitter in our bed later, so really they haven’t escaped this fate at all.

“What’d you guys end up doing with all the extra hearts?”

“Packed’em away in some storage boxes, to be reused if we need them,” I chuckle, remembering the look of confused horror on that poor guy’s face as we carried box after box of paper hearts into the storage container. And they’re still sitting there, patiently waiting for the chance to be used, the chance to see daylight again.

Felix hums, but says nothing more and for a while, we simply work in silence. The quiet is broken only by the sound of blades cutting through sheets of ugly yellow paper and the shaking of glitter tubes and I hate it, am _this_ close to getting up and turning on something, _anything_ , when Felix suddenly lifts his head, whips it up so fast I’m surprised it doesn’t snap his neck.

“Can I ask you something?” He’s looking at me with such intense curiosity that I almost want to squirm, but I clamp down on the temptation.

“Pretty sure you just did, but you can have another question if you want, as a treat.”

“Okay, so,” he tilts closer to me and lowers his voice, because that’s definitely going to help in a Warehouse _full_ of people with super hearing, “Nat told me not to ask this, back when we first met you, but I feel like it’s okay now, because we’re close, yeah?”

A strange little feeling bubbles up in my chest, coils up tight like a snake against my ribs and sits there, uncomfortable and weird. I try my best to ignore it — because ignoring uncomfortable things is basically my forte — and nod instead, forcing a casual smile. “Sure, I mean we’ve almost died together a couple of times, that’d make anyone close.”

He hesitates, casts a wary glance toward the closed door and then back to me, lowering his voice even further. “How’d you know, uh,” he pauses, rolls his lips awkwardly, and then, “that you weren’t, you know, a girl?”

I blink and just like that, the bubble bursts. Deflates, the snake slithering away, and I laugh, because how can I not? He looks so deadly serious, with his hushed tones and little frown, and for _that_ question? It only makes me laugh harder, tears pricking at the corner of my eyes, and now Felix is frowning deeper, pulling back up as I wipe them away.

“What’s so funny?”

“I’m sorry it’s just, I’ve never had anyone ask me that so, I don’t know, nicely before?” To be fair, most people tend not to ask at all, I’ve found. It’s general knowledge in Wayhaven and no one really questions it, not anymore, and outside the town, well… 

Most of the time, people just _assume_ my gender and it’s hit or miss, if they actually listen when I correct them. Or if they even understand what I’m talking about, really.

“I’m sorry if it’s rude! Nat said it would be a rude question, maybe I shouldn’t have asked,” Felix mumbles, more to himself than me, and I shrug, pivoting the scissors in my hand to cut another corner of the star. 

“It’s fine, I mean it can be rude but it depends more on the person asking and their intent, and less on the question itself,” I tell him, because in my experience, it seems to be the most true. “A lot of times, people don’t really want to know, they just want to cause a scene by asking.”

“Why would they want to do that?” And I’m not sure if I want to laugh or cry, at the fact that Felix can’t seem to understand why anyone would have a problem with my gender identity. 

“Because a lot of people think that there can only be two genders,” I say, stopping briefly to glare at the uneven point of the star before I decide I don’t care enough and just throw it into the finished pile. “They want everyone to fit into nice, neat little boxes so that they don’t have to think too hard, and hate it when people refuse to follow along.”

For a moment, Felix doesn’t say anything else — a rarity from him — and I can practically see the gears turning in his head, as he processes my words. I almost want to ask him how gender works in the Echo World, but I decide against it; he hides it, but even I can tell that talking about the place makes him sad, so I hold my tongue and start on another star.

Then, softly, “So, how did you figure out you didn’t belong in a box?”

It’s always strange, when this topic comes up, because I know the answer — it’s a part of who I am, after all — but putting it into words is… hard, more difficult than I think a lot of people realize. Never mind that it’s been ages, since anyone even asked; Nat and Ava have never brought it up, simply accepted my identity without pause, and even Mason’s never mentioned it. Either because he doesn’t care or, maybe, because he knows it doesn’t matter.

This is who I am, the only me he’s ever known, so why go digging for a person he’s never going to meet?

Still, I can tell that Felix is genuinely curious and I know that no matter what I tell him, it won’t change his view of me. That’s not the kind of person Felix is, not by a mile.

So, I fumble for the words. Turn them over and over in my head and, finally, decide to just go for it. “I was nine, when I first figured out I didn’t feel right, being a girl,” I start and it feels weird, like the words are sticky and hard to chew, but I push on, “I mean, I didn’t feel like a boy, but I tended to lean more that way, if only because wearing their clothes and doing the activities most people labeled as ‘boy stuff’ didn’t make me feel as… uncomfortable, I guess?”

I can still remember the day Nanny the Sixth — they were in constant rotation, coming and going, that it became easier to just give them numbers than remember names — came in to find me tearing apart all of my dresses, child scissors in hand, and the way she yelled, face going red as a tomato. She called Rebecca, who in turn called the house (the first time in nearly four months), and I got a verbal thrashing, but it had been worth it in the end.

They never bought me another dress, at least.

“It wasn’t until I was around twelve, that I found out people like me existed,” I continue, and there is a hint of nostalgia, creeping through me like wandering vines, “I met a man, he worked at the school I was going to as a counselor or whatever, and he’s the one who told me that how I was feeling, about myself and my body, was okay. He told me that sometimes, when people are born, things get a little… mixed up, so sometimes, we have to fix it ourselves and that can mean a lot of things.”

“Like what? How do you fix that kind of thing?” Felix is spreading a bit of glue onto another star, but his attention is focused solely on me.

I chuckle, keeping an eye on his hand to make sure he doesn’t accidentally get any of the stuff on the carpet. “Well, some people wear certain clothes or they change their name, like I did, and want to use different pronouns,” I say, turning the paper over in my hands, to get a better angle, and my fingers are starting to go numb, from holding these damn scissors. “Others change their bodies, either in small ways or in big ways, everyone is different in what they need to feel comfortable in their own skin, is what he was getting at.”

“But you look like… well…” He trails off, gaze sliding over me, and I snort.

“My body’s never bothered me, well,” I stop short, eyes narrowing, “I wouldn’t say no to a few more inches, life’s not easy when you’re Hobbit-sized, but other than that? It doesn’t mess with me, not the way it does other people, mine was more… internal, I guess? I never felt like a girl, but calling myself a boy never clicked either, and then one day, I realized I was neither, and it made so much more sense.”

Felix raises a hand to rub at his chin, leaving a trail of glitter behind. “I think I get it,” he says, and I can tell from his tone that he doesn’t, really, but it’s the thought that counts. He perks then, eyes going wide, and I almost jump back when he jabs a finger toward me. “Wait, Eden’s not your real name?!”

Ah, fuck. I’d hoped he would miss that part, but I guess nothing gets past Felix. “No, it’s not,” I respond, warily, and lift my own hand, pinching the bridge of my nose. “And before you ask, no, it doesn’t have any special meaning, I chose it at random,” and I did, just closed my eyes and pointed to a random name in the book I’d found.

“What was your old name?”

“It doesn’t matter, it’s not my name anymore.” 

Thankfully, Felix lets the matter drop, and I’m sure it’s because he can sense my unease with the topic. It’s one thing, to discuss how I decided my identity, it’s another thing to dredge up a name I haven’t heard or thought about in years.

“Well,” Felix chirps, his mood instantly back to normal, full lips curved back into that familiar smile, “I think Eden is a cool name, and hey, you’re not too bad yourself!”

I snort, doing my best to ignore the little flood of warmth spilling through me. “I’m so glad you approve,” I say, because it’s so much easier to laugh it off than to admit just how much his words, and his easy acceptance, actually mean to me. “So, got any more questions for me?”

Felix seems to mull it over, but then he shakes his head, that grin brighter than ever. “Nope! Well, wait, one more,” he adds quickly, eyes glancing toward the pile of stars sitting before him, “how many more of these do we have?”

My own gaze slides to the thick stack of paper still resting beside me and I sigh. “A bunch? However many that is, I guess.”

His groan is so loud it echoes in the room and reverberates through me. “We’re going to die here, aren’t we?”

“Just trust in the glitter, Hauville,” I assure, reaching over to pat his knee, “it’ll take care of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and/or comments are appreciated! I'm also on [tumblr!](https://elmshore.tumblr.com/)


	25. relinquishing control (mason/nb detective)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Day 25: Filthy) Mason and Cordelia decide to try a little something new in the bedroom.
> 
> Warnings/Includes: Voyeurism, mutual masturbation, some light deep throating, multiple orgasms, vampire biting, and basically, shameless smut.

Not for the first time this evening, Cordelia wonders how she let herself get into this situation.

Or, no, she knows _how_ this happened, so perhaps the better question is why? Except, she knows this answer too, so really, there is no escaping it. She is, after all, the one who proposed trying something new in the bedroom and so here she is, reaping the consequences of her actions.

The blindfold is comfortable, made of silk and tied firmly at the back of her head, blocking her sight entirely. She is awash in darkness, unable to see even a fraction of light, and it is strange, the way her other senses immediately work to compensate for the lack of one; every little gust of air is magnified, every smell and sound seems _more_ , intense and almost overwhelming.

She feels exposed — hard not to, when she is completely nude — and completely out of her depth, twisting nervously atop the sheets as she rolls her bottom lip between her teeth. 

Beside her, to the right, the bed dips and then fingers, hot as brands yet light as feathers, skim along her abdomen. They glide up, charting a course between the slopes of her breasts, and she whines, body shivering at the touch. The heat of him seeps into her and Cordelia finds herself leaning into it, drawn like a moth to a flame.

Mason hums, a rumbling sound deep in his throat that sends a jolt of want skittering through her, and then his fingers are climbing higher, thumb sweeping across her cheek. “You okay, sweetheart?” 

Unable to see him, all Cordelia can do is hone in on the sound of his voice — rough and dark, like thunder rolling in with a storm — and she nods, wetting her lips. “Yes,” she manages, and it is shaky, uneven, “I’m okay, just a little nervous.”

He says nothing, but she feels him move and the bed shifts under his weight. It is difficult to gauge what is happening, but suddenly none of that matters because his lips are on her now, retracing the path his fingers took just seconds before. Her breath stutters in her chest and she arches, body rising off the bed, lured ever closer by his mouth, his touch, _him_. 

“You sure?” Mason asks and he seems different, softer in this moment. His kisses are delicate, as if she is made of glass and porcelain and precious, so easily broken. “If you don’t want to do this, then we won’t,” he continues, stubble pricking along her skin like little shockwaves, “we’ll do whatever you’re comfortable with, no questions asked.”

And he means it, every single word. The realization makes her heart swell, to know that no matter how badly he may want her, Mason is always careful to adhere to her pace. He is ever patient, and it is one of the multitude of reasons that she loves him, that she feels safe, placing her heart in his hands.

It is why she nods, despite the fluttering of her pulse, and says, “Yes, I’m sure.”

A tongue, hot and coarse, presses against her nipple and she gasps, mind reeling from the sensation. Mason closes his lips around the nub, sucking it between his teeth, and deep in her belly, a fire roars to life. Burning tendrils coil through her, like vines creeping through her veins, and it gathers low, between her legs.

The hand at her cheek moves, ghosts down along her jaw and twines into her hair, fingers sliding through the red locks. Cordelia tries to swallow or speak, she cannot be sure of which, but her throat is sticky and useless and all she can do is pant, heart beating against her ribs like some wild beast. At her side, Mason shifts and she turns her head toward the movement, though she cannot see a thing, and tries to picture him in her mind, to orient herself as best she can. 

His mouth leaves her breast and she shivers, cool air washing over the slick skin. “Good,” he growls, lips ghosting over her collarbone, and the sound of it rattles through her, settles in her chest, fanning the flames raging inside of her. 

Then, he is gone, and space beside her is empty, his weight now missing. She bites her lip, hands grasping at the sheets, and wishes it were him, wants to feel him again.

His steps are light, muffled by the plush carpet, but her senses are keener now, no longer human, and though she is blinded, her ears make up for the loss of sight. The delicate tips perk, tracking his movements, and Cordelia knows when he rounds the bed, stopping just at the foot of it. Can feel his eyes on her, soaking in the sight of her, and the thought makes her writhe, skin flushing. The heat spills over her cheeks and down, to the tops of her breasts and perhaps lower still, it is hard to say.

She is like a wildfire, searing and bright, and this is only the beginning.

Lean, freckled fingers curl around her knees and she starts at the touch, pulse spiking, blood roaring in her ears. He spreads her legs, bends them up at the knee, and she opens willingly for him, toes curling into the mattress as the chilled air drifts over her center and leaves her dizzy, mind a haze of nothing but lust and _Mason_ , always him. “You’re stunning, Starlight,” he murmurs, tone husky, “so fucking beautiful,” and now she reaches for him, driven only by pure instinct.

The need to touch him is always there, brimming under the surface, and she is helpless to fight it.

Mason meets her halfway, laces their fingers together and holds her tight, squeezing to tell her that he is here, with her. “We’re going to have some fun tonight, sweetheart,” he promises and it is so easy, she finds, to envision that wonderful mouth of his curved into a positively wolfish grin, the smirk coating his words, “but first, we need to set a few rules.”

He drops her hand, leaves her finger by finger, and her arm falls back onto the bed, tangling among the sheets once more.

She fights back another whine as his hands slide down her legs and curl around the back of her thighs, blunt nails pricking at the tender flesh, each one sending a new bolt of pleasure straight to her core. Mason chuckles, tracing little half-moon circles as he inches his fingers further around, closer and closer to where she wants them, but never close enough. He drags his thumbs between the crease where her leg meets the body and hears him snarl, a fierce sound that has her throbbing.

“You’re so wet already, sweetheart,” he purrs and she can feel his fingers hovering above her cunt, so tantalizingly close yet still so tragically far away. “Did I make you this wet?”

“Yes,” she gasps, practically tearing at the sheets in her need, and she lets her head fall back into the pillows, hips rising to try and meet him. “Mason, _please_ ,” she begs, knowing this shall not be the first time she does so this evening, not if he has his way.

And he _will_ have his way with her tonight — that is, after all, the whole point of this endeavor. To surrender her control to him, utterly and completely.

He pulls his hand away from her, returning it to her inner thigh — now damp with her arousal — and she groans in protest. “Be patient, sweetheart,” he hums, and she wants to argue, to tell him that she has no patience left, but she bites her tongue. “Just some easy rules, to make sure our little game goes smoothly. You follow them like a good girl, and you’ll be rewarded. You break them,” and here Mason pauses, his grip on her tightening to an almost painful degree, “and you’ll be punished. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” she moans, near breathless from it all, and he growls, clearly pleased with her answer. “I’ll be good, I promise.”

Underneath her, the bed dips and creaks and she can sense Mason moving again, crawling over her. He slots himself between her spread legs and she can sense him hovering there, can feel his warm breath waft over her stomach, wet and tickling, sending little shivers zigzagging down her spine.

Mason drops a kiss between her thighs, inches above her aching cunt, and she cries out, desperation driving her to try and rise, to meet his mouth fully, but he stops her. Locks her in place with a hand at her hip, his hold unforgiving. “I’ll hold you to that promise, sweetheart,” Mason rumbles, and more kisses follow, his lips mapping a fiery course along her thighs. 

He laps at her arousal and each stripe of his tongue pushes her closer to that edge, urges her nearer and nearer to the pleasure she seeks. It is astonishing, how even with the barest of touches, he can drive her mad. 

When he peels away from her, Cordelia slams a fist into the mattress and twists awkwardly, feeling cool and empty and alone. Hears him chuckle, a low sound that echoes through her, and is dimly aware of him moving yet again, stepping away from the bed and… to the left? Her senses are scrambled now, clouded by desire and frustration and it is difficult to ascertain where he is, or what he is doing.

The sound of a drawer opening — yes then, on her left — draws her attention and she turns, a force of habit she will need to break. She can hear items being rummaged through and immediately, a new wave of heat flares over her skin.

She knows _exactly_ where he is, now.

“Damn, sweetheart,” Mason whistles, sounding almost impressed by the array of toys she keeps tucked away, and it does nothing to stem the flood of embarrassment, “you’ve got quite the collection here, I’m — wait, is this a strap-on?”

It is pointless, she knows, but her hands fly to her face and she wishes, with all her might, that she could just disappear now. “Yes,” she squeaks, because she knows that in this instance, her silence will only be more damning. “I bought it when I was still in MIT,” and that is all she will say on the matter, because he has no need to know of the brief month where, after having her heart broken by Bobby, she drowned herself in one-night stands.

“So let me get this straight,” he grumbles, snapping the drawer closed, obviously having found whatever it is he sought, “you’ve had a mini arsenal hidden away in here this whole time and you never said anything?”

“You never asked?” It is a weak excuse, but right now, it is the only thing that comes to mind.

Mason laughs and he is closer once more, still on her left but near the bed again. “Well, I know about them now, sweetheart,” he teases and it is abundantly clear from his tone that he fully intends to put this newly acquired knowledge to use later on.

She nearly jumps right out of her skin when she feels the cool touch of silicone against her leg, little bumps and ridges pulling a gasp from her lips. Instantly, her mind clicks with what the object is: one of her newer vibrators, remote-controlled and fairly expensive, but very much worth it. A gift for herself, bought to deal with the supposed rejection of the vampire who is now, ironically, teasing her with it.

A faint click and the toy whirrs to life, low vibrations rippling along her flesh. She cries out, each one ricocheting down to her center and she can feel her cunt dripping as she fights against the urge to close her legs. Her body is tense, fingers tangling in the covers and she mewls, a plaintive sound that only earns her a quiet snarl. The toy goes still, but she is left shaking, quivering in both desire and anticipation, mouth parted as she gapes for air. 

“I want you to fuck yourself with this, sweetheart,” he whispers, dragging the vibrator up and down her leg, dipping down between her thighs, “and I’m going to watch, just stand back and enjoy the show.”

He presses the toy into her palm, wraps her fingers around the base, and pulls away. “I’ll hold on to the remote, to make sure you’re a good girl and that you follow the rules,” and now that haze is stronger than ever, creeps into her mind and leaves her unable to think, scrambling to keep herself above the water. “Just remember, you do what I say, and I’ll make sure you feel good, okay?”

All she can do is nod, words a distant and foggy memory. His mouth is on her own then and her lips invite him in eagerly, filled only with the need to taste him. 

A tongue slicks over her own and she drowns in the flavor, petrichor and smoke, but not from cigarettes — no, this is natural, something rich and all his own, uniquely Mason. It spills down her throat like nectar, filling her completely, and then it is gone, pulling away from her, leaving her ever wanting. She chases after his mouth, captures his lip between her teeth and he growls, a hushed sound. His fingers coil around the hinge of her chin and his grip is tight, but the pain only fuels the pleasure.

“If you need to stop,” he says, lips next to her ear, teeth grazing the shell, “then you say so, okay?”

Even now, with the control firmly in his hands, he thinks of her, and she could kiss him again, if only he would allow it. But his hold on her is firm and so she simply nods her understanding.

Mason steps away from the side of her bed and walks around it, back to the foot, then further. There is a small desk on the far side of her room, one that she uses for personal work, and a chair, leather-bound and comfortable, a relic from her childhood home, meticulously refurbished. She hears it creak as he takes a seat and then, a zipper being undone The metallic sound causes her pulse to race, heart fluttering in her chest, and oh, how she wishes she could see him, the way he takes himself in hand at the sight of her.

But her imagination is vivid and her memory even more so, and as the images flit through her mind, she feels a hunger coiling in her belly. Drags a tongue over her bottom lip and waits for his orders.

“Be a good girl, sweetheart, and touch yourself.”

Cordelia moves the toy closer to her center, hand shaking, but he snarls. “No,” he snaps, and it is enough to make her shudder, “with your fingers, first.”

A crackle of electricity tears through her, settles at her core, and she nods, tongue leaden in her mouth. She drops her arm back to her side, the vibrator still grasped firmly in her hand, and raises the other, sliding it between her legs. Dips a finger between her wet folds and the sound that tumbles out of her is broken, keening, and when she adds another, drags them up and down slowly, a dark growl echoes in the room around her.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Mason coos, and she wonders if he is stroking himself now, those lean fingers gripping his cock as he watches. “Look at you, soaking wet and making a mess already, does it feel good to touch yourself?”

“Yes, sir,” she answers, quick in her response, voice hitching as she brushes a thumb over her clit, the sensitive nub all but throbbing now.

He shifts in the chair, leather creaking at the motion, and she thinks he might be leaning forward. Can only be sure of his gaze fixed on her, those gray eyes searing her flesh with their intensity. “I can smell you, sweetheart,” he tells her, voice rough like gravel, “you’re so fucking turned on, aren’t you? Are you going to be a good girl for me?”

“Yes, sir, I promise,” is all she can manage, the words on autopilot as she teases herself, fingers gliding through the folds, gaining speed. Her hips buck carelessly, seeking more, more, _more_.

And now she can smell it, too. Not only the tang of her own arousal, but his as well, tart and tempting. Can imagine the bead of precum forming at the tip of his cock, tongue itching to taste it.

“Go on, sweetheart, fuck yourself for me.”

Her fingers slip inside of her easily and she sheathes them deep, to the knuckle. Crooks up, spreads them wide, and her back arches, hips rising off the bed, heels digging into the mattress. She builds her pace steadily, thrusts in and out, slick and scissoring. 

They are no substitute for _his_ fingers, and nowhere near the feel of his cock buried deep in her, but the friction is enough, for now. 

Distantly, she can hear the sound of flesh sliding along flesh and yes, now he is taking his pleasure. She has watched him do it before — knows, intimately, the way he flicks his wrist _just so_ on the downward stroke, tugging up and circling the head — and those are the memories she conjures forth, burns them into her mind and allows them to linger, lets them urge her on.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Mason purrs and oh, she wishes she could see him, the expression on his face, eyes half-lidded and lips no doubt parted. “Good girl, just like that,” he praises, the words better than any pleasure her fingers might bring her, “fuck, you’re gorgeous like this, all laid out and ready for me.”

She groans and adds a third finger, lets her rhythm build, hips grinding to keep up. All she can think of is him; over her or behind her or under her, it matters little. Fucking her, with his mouth or his fingers or his cock, wringing her for every drop of pleasure he can find. Mason knows her like no other, a single touch from him is enough to undo her completely, take her apart bit by bit, and it should be terrifying — and perhaps it is, in a way — but instead, it is exhilarating.

To give herself over to another so completely, to put herself in his hands and know, with no doubt, that he will never betray that trust.

Her fingers catch just right, curving up and the angle is enough to have her sitting up, breath shallow and panting. She can feel her own arousal dripping down her hand, coating the inside of her legs and soaking the bed, grateful now that they thought to put down an extra blanket, just to be safe. With each thrust, she draws nearer and nearer to that edge, that precipice of pleasure, so close that she can almost see it in her mind, crystal clear, gleaming like an oasis in the desert.

“Stop.” The order is curt, harsh, and she has no choice but to comply, even as she wants to rebel, to resist the command.

With great reluctance, she pulls her fingers back, drenched in her wetness, and tries to calm her breathing. Sweat beads along her skin, the little drops sliding down between the curve of her breasts and strands of hair cling to the nape of her neck, tickling her.

“Taste yourself,” he demands, husky and low, “I want you to know how good you taste, sweetheart.”

Cordelia brings the hand up, to her mouth, and slowly, one by one, cleans each finger. Sucks them into her mouth, tongue lapping at her wetness, and moans, the taste a little tart but not unpleasant, a little sweet at the end. Once she is done, she lets the hand fall, swirls a finger around her nipple, and hears him snarl, but no reprimand comes.

“Do it again, but this time,” and the smirk is so prominent in his voice, each word heavy, “you can use your little friend.”

When the silicone first caresses her folds, she starts, and the touch is cool, a little foreign compared to the familiarity of her fingers. Like before, she takes her time — two strokes is all it takes, before the toy is coated in her arousal, slick and ready, her cunt eager to accept it. 

But, not yet, not until he bids her do so. 

She swirls the toy around her clit, lets the little ridges glide over the tender nub, and hears a faint _click_ , her only warning before it comes alive. Her gasp is strangled, more a scream than anything else, and when she tries to move it, fingers clamp down around her wrist. Mason is there, vampiric speed leaving her at a loss, and he holds her hand in place, the toy relentless in its vibrations.

Gently, but offering no chance of escape, he drags her hand down. The toy goes silent as it slicks through her folds, then hums back to life as it draws up to her clit, and each time sends her into a frenzy, body tumbling back to the pillows. Her free hand clutches the side of the bed, nails digging into the blanket and she worries it might rip, but such concerns are pale in comparison to the lust rocking through her as cry after cry falls from her lips.

He is torturing her, and oh, in the best of ways.

“You look so fucking beautiful, Starlight,” he murmurs and the nickname, tender in its use, seems at odds with his merciless teasing, the silicone cock pressing firmly against her clit at maximum speed. “Are you thinking about me, sweetheart? Wishing it was my cock in that sweet, wet cunt?”

She moans, a pathetic little thing, and nods. “Yes, Mason, _fuck_ ,” she pleads, only to let out a yelp when something connects with her ass, sharp and stinging. Realizes it is his hand, open palm to flesh, and the knowledge rushes over her like a tidal wave. “Yes, sir,” she corrects, even as a little voice in her mind begs for him to do it again.

Mason guides her hand down, the toy still quivering in her grasp, and eases it into her. She gasps, groans, and flutters against it, trying to adjust to the feeling, full now in a way she has missed. Little sparks dance along her flesh and her heart thunders against her ribs. “There you go,” he says, voice not quite a growl but something else, something primal and hungry, “that’s my good girl, take it all in.”

And she does. It fills her completely and each hum is like an explosion, igniting the flames roaring inside of her, until all she can do is shake and cry. 

Her eyes squeeze shut behind the blindfold and it is foolish, but instinctive, and he continues to help her. Pulls the toy out, slow and measured, before plunging back in just as carefully. Each time, the speed of the vibrator changes — slow then fast, oscillating between pleasure and pain in a delicate dance — and Cordelia fears she will fall too soon, that familiar sensation coiling tight in her belly, but finds that such a worry is unfounded. 

Mason is deliberate in his actions, and he is quick to stop, to go stock still, the moment he senses that she is closing in on that edge.

“Not just yet, sweetheart,” he sighs and she feels his lips against the side of her knee, a searing kiss. “I want to see you squirm a little more.” His hand falls away from her wrist, leaving her in charge of the toy now nestled inside of her, and she can hear him move away, steps growing fainter. 

Imagines him stroking himself faster, thumb swiping over the tip of his cock, and she whines, attempting to find her own new rhythm. Begins to learn the pattern of the vibrations and matches them, hips swiveling.

The hand at her side moves, restless in its inaction, and closes around her breast. She pauses, but he offers no scolding and she continues. Rolls the nipple between the pads of her thumb and index finger. Times each one with her thrusts, pace increasing as she throws her head back and it is almost impossible, but she attempts to open her legs wider, to make sure he can see everything.

Any and all embarrassment is gone now, evaporating in the mist of lust that now clings to her.

“Tell me what you want, sweetheart,” and he sounds different, his own breath short as he watches her, enjoys the sight of her, “I want to hear you say it.”

She fights to get the words up and out of her mouth, each one jagged and sticky like syrup, clinging to her throat, then her tongue. “I want to come,” she says finally, straining along each syllable, and the words turn into a breathless cry as he increases the speed, the toy quaking inside of her. “I want to come for you, sir,” she amends, tears stinging the corner of her eyes.

“I know you do, sweetheart, but do you _deserve_ to come?”

Cordelia fumbles for a response, mind blank and scrambling, devoid of reason or logic. She _thinks_ she deserves it, but perhaps that means the opposite? Her mouth opens, then snaps shut, and the only sound she can make is a moan, pitiful and wanting. “Please, sir, I want to come,” and her only reply is the toy going dead, a wail rising in her throat.

“I know what you want,” he says, hard as stone, “but that’s not what I asked, I want to know if you deserve to come.”

“Yes, sir, I — ” she cuts herself off, tries to make sense of the jumble of words now spinning in her mind. “I do, sir, please.”

The toy roars back into action, as fast as it can go, and she screams, still fucking herself with it desperately, hips rocking up to meet it with every thrust. She moves her hand, slides it down from her breast and between her legs, swirls it around her clit, and hears him groan. That edge is so close now, her toes just at the line, and she wants to jump, to free fall down into her pleasure, but she forces herself to wait, to be patient.

Needs his permission, first.

Luckily, it is not far behind. “Go on, sweetheart,” he growls, grunting as he strokes himself, and she wonders: is his own pace frenzied or steady? Licks her lips at the thought, either one a delight to imagine. “Be a good girl now and come for me.”

She lets the toy sink into her, takes it in as far as it can go, and leaps. Even in the dark, stars bloom to life behind her eyes, dazzling and brilliant, and she bows up, body rising and back curving as the wave slams into her. The orgasm rips through her like a current at sea, terrible and wonderful, and Mason shows her no pity. He keeps the toy at full speed as she continues to fuck herself, riding out the storm of her own pleasure.

White blankets her mind, a blizzard of lust and want and _need_ consuming her entirely, and she cries. Moans his name as if it were a litany, the only word left to her now, and it is a mantra, a prayer, a moor to anchor her, guide her back to shore. Cordelia floats down from her high, body languid and limbs loose, and sags into the sheets, chest heaving.

Inside of her, the toy stops and she lets it slip out with a quiet _pop_ , drops it to the bed, arms shaking. That fire is still burning within her, but it is softer now, the flames a comfort, and she hears him move, feels his presence beside her. He takes her hand and guides it up, until the tips of her fingers bump against the side of his length, hard and erect.

Cordelia moans and, without needing to be told, wraps her fingers around his cock, his own hand peeling away to allow her full access. He is heavy in her grasp, hot and wide, and she begins to stroke him, the motions as familiar to her as breathing. Sweeps a thumb over the head and gathers a bit of the precum lingering there, uses it on her descent back to the base, slicking his cock with his own arousal. “Fuck, yes,” he hisses, pivoting into her touch and she feels his hand press into the pillow beside her head.

And it feels wonderful to touch him, to finally have him in her hand, but still she wants _more_. “Please,” she purrs, twisting toward him, the heat of him a beacon in the dark, “I want to taste you, Mason, please.”

If he minds her speaking out of turn, he does an excellent job of hiding it behind a snarl, and before she can react, that hand is in her hair. Tangles through the fiery locks and his hold is tight, but each pulse of pain only makes her ache in the most delicious of ways. She can smell him — sandalwood and pine and sex — and it makes her mouth water with want, head spinning from the need of him.

He takes hold of her wrist, holding her arm still, and steps back, his cock slipping out of her hand. The hand in her hair is soon to follow, untangling itself and pulling away, leaving her devoid of his touch, trembling and aching. Her ears track his movements, the quiet and precise steps around the bed, until he is once more at the foot of it. Fingers, steady and sure, dig into the sides of her hips and yank, pulling her down the bed with a sharp gasp, until she is closer to him, in just the position he wants.

Mason slides his hands down, over the tops of her thighs, and then down, nails grazing the slick skin as she reels from the touch, her cunt still tender yet wanting more. “Sit up,” he commands and she is quick to obey, hands scrabbling for purchase along the sheets as she pushes upright. 

He lowers her legs off the edge, until her feet can touch the floor, and then he takes hold of her wrists. Lifts them, almost tenderly, and stretches her arms forward, until her fingertips brush along the soft flesh of his outer thighs — he must have shed his pants entirely — and her nails map out the galaxies she knows are there, constellations littering his skin.

She holds on to him, even as he releases her, but she is not long without his touch and not seconds later, his hands are on her again, framing her face before they slip back, twining into her hair and tipping her head back. Mason stares at her, she can feel his eyes on her, and she wonders what he looks like right now. 

Is he flushed? Are those beautiful starbursts across his cheeks hidden by a dark heat? Have his eyes gone black, pupils blown wide, and eclipsing the gray in hungry shadows. 

Cordelia has little time to ponder such things, because suddenly his mouth is claiming her own and she melts into the kiss, meets him with a vigor that no longer surprises her.

It is no sweet thing, their kiss, but rather a war of tongues and teeth, breath hot and mingling across their faces, leaving the skin damp. She can taste the salt on his lips, from the sweat that coats him, and she nips at him, nibbling in a way that has him snarling. He takes her tongue between his lips and drags along it, sucking, and she moans, cunt thrumming with a new influx of desire. Can he still taste her own arousal on her? She hopes so.

When he breaks away, he sinks his teeth into her bottom lip and tugs, causing her to whine. Blood pools and he laps at it greedily, drinks in the flavor of her life. She digs her fingers into his thighs and then around, sliding over his ass, trying to pull him closer. His mouth curves against her own, into a smirk she knows well, and he pulls up. “Tell me, sweetheart,” he whispers and his voice pours over her like velvet, “tell me what you want.”

“I want to taste you,” she answers readily, no shame or hesitation, only primal lust fueling her now. “I want you to come in my mouth,” and already she can recall the flavor of him, rich and heady, licking her lips. “Please, let me taste you, sir.”

“Good girl,” and the words alone are enough to almost unravel her, the praise sending a flash of heat pooling at her core, dripping down her still wet thighs.

She feels the tip of him at her lips and opens for him, invites him into her mouth. His cock is heavy against her tongue and for a moment, she lets him sit there, enjoys the feel of him, the tang of his precum. But Mason is not always a patient man and he slides out, only to snap his hips forward, and she groans, the tip brushing the back of her throat.

He sets an unforgiving pace. His fingers keep a steady grip on her hair as he guides her head in the motions, and each thrust sees him going in deeper, until she can scarcely breathe, eyes watering. This is new, and strange, but somehow… invigorating. Cordelia finds that she likes the ferocity of it, the way her lungs cry for air and the saliva that pools at the corners of her mouth, seeping out each time he leaves her.

Before long, his cock is drenched in her saliva and when he pulls out, thin tendrils dangle between them, falling and sliding down her breasts. “Is this what you wanted, sweetheart?” He asks, only to fill her mouth again and the action has her eyes rolling back slightly, leaving her to moan an agreement.

Her tongue licks a stripe down the length of him, to the base and back. Swirls around the head, over the slit, and he groans, a thunderous sound that makes her quiver. Mason plunges in, far as he can go, and holds her head still, until she is gagging, unable even to swallow. 

“You should see yourself,” he growls, finally pulling free and she coughs, face slick with sweat and spit, lips swollen, “choking on my cock, it’s a good look on you, sweetheart.”

A gulp of air, then one more, and she tries to find his cock again, helpless in her need for it. He laughs, but takes mercy on her and when it slides back into her mouth, she mewls, head bobbing. The rhythm changes, only a little; he is still fierce, frenetic in his thrusts, but he gives her time to enjoy his length, to tease and taste him with her tongue, to nibble at the head with her teeth, earning a wonderful moan that is like honey, smooth and rich. 

She lets her hands slide down, settle at the back of his thighs and grips them tight as she can, leaning in closer, trying to take more of him into her. He is so close now, she can feel it — in the way his length twitches and throbs, the precum leaking onto her tongue only a sample of what she most desires — and she tilts back, closes her lips around the head and sucks. Mason hisses, jerking forward and gives her hair a hard tug, drawing a moan from her.

“Don’t be a tease, sweetheart,” he warns, each word laced with an authority that sounds wonderful on him, “just be a good girl, and suck this cock for me.” One of his hands eases out of her hair and glides down, over the curve of her cheek and along her jaw, stopping her chin. 

“Do you want me to feed you? Fill this pretty little mouth until all you can taste is me?” The words are like flames, licking at her flesh, and she moans, looking up at him though she cannot see him. 

Cordelia swallows him, takes the full length of him back into her mouth, and he groans, hips rocking into her, fucking her, pace slowly turning more erratic, severe, giving her no reprieve. Her lungs scream for air, but she ignores them, and lets him ruin her, submits to his rhythm. She aches to touch herself, to slip two fingers between her legs and pleasure herself, but she dare not.

When he breaks, it is ferocious and without warning. A vicious cry echoes in the air around them, leaves her ears ringing and her body humming in tune. He growls, forming words that sound like her name, the shape and flow of them familiar, but her mind is elsewhere. On the flavor now spilling onto her tongue, down her throat, and she joins him, a cry of her own muffled around the length of him, and he jerks forward, holds her tight and still, locks her in place as he succumbs to his own storm. 

She struggles to breathe, to swallow, her mouth full of him, and when he seems to sense that she can handle no more, he pulls out. Takes himself in hand and strokes out the last of his arousal, the liquid warm as it lands on her chest, only a bit, but more than she is willing to risk losing.

Carefully, she draws one of her hands from around him and gathers the cum from her skin, collects it on her fingertip. Pops it into her mouth, licking it clean, and she moans, relishing the taste of him, tart and a little bitter. And the area around her mouth is sticky, coated in saliva and cum and sweat, but she pays it no mind. The air around her changes and she realizes he is kneeling between her legs, hands braced on the bed beside her, so close but not touching, not yet.

The hand drops and his mouth takes its place, kissing her like a man drowning, searching for air. She cups his face, feels the sharp lines of his face, and leans into him. Slicks her tongue over his own, lets him taste himself, and when he growls, she swallows the sound. 

Feels it settle deep in her chest and put down roots, blooming into something beautiful.

And it would all be so utterly perfect, except she is still wanting, cunt aching. She whines, legs spreading, writhing, and he smirks into the kiss, nibbling at her lip. “You still want more, sweetheart?”

She nods, trying to catch her breath as his mouth trails down to her jaw, forging a scorching path along her flesh, tongue lapping at the mess they have made together. “You’re so needy,” he hums quietly, and Cordelia can feel the rumble of it echoing through her. “Do you want to come again, sweetheart? Do you want me to fuck you, over and over, until you’re nothing but a beautiful ruin?”

“Yes, _please_ , yes,” she sighs, toes pressing into the carpet as she arches toward him, as his hands slip down to find the curve of her waist, warm fingers curling against her ribs. “Fuck me, please,” she pleads, and it matters little to her what he uses — tongue or fingers or cock — so long as he is inside her.

He pushes her back, until she is flat on the bed, and he is above her, knee resting between her legs. Mason kisses her again, hard and desperate, and then he is moving, inching down. Leaves searing, open-mouthed kisses over every inch of skin he can reach, and she squirms, his stubble tugging at her flesh, catching on every little bump in the best of ways. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he snarls and she feels the bed shift as he slides off, to — she thinks — kneel on the floor before her, “I’m nowhere near done with you, yet.”

A threat, perhaps, but she rather thinks of it as a promise.

Mason eases his hands under her thighs and tugs her down, until her ass is almost off the bed. She knows what he intends to do, needs no sight to gauge what is about to happen, and yet even so, nothing prepares her for the feel of his mouth on her. “Fuck, Mason,” she wails, hands flying down to tangle through his dark hair, intertwining in those silken locks, hips bucking up to meet him.

His tongue parts her folds, laps at her wetness ravenously, and when he slips three fingers into her, she shoots up, his name bouncing off the walls. They crook and curve inside of her, splayed wide, and Cordelia is alight, burning like a star in its last moments, and her hips roll to meet him desperately, seeking the friction. “Yes, fuck, just — oh, _fuck_ , yes, right there,” she directs, all thoughts of the game forgotten, concerned only with her own pleasure. He says nothing against the command, only closes his lips around her clit and sucks, tongue rolling over the nub, a fourth finger easing into her.

Her blood is molten now, flowing through her veins like golden fire, and she whines. Frees a hand from his hair and slams it against the bed, gripping the sheets, twisting and pulling and abuzz with frenetic energy. He covers it with his own then, laces their fingers together and holds her, lets her squeeze tight as she needs. “Mason,” and her voice is broken, jagged at the edges, and she is so close now, so very near to where she wants to be. “Please, baby, make me come, I’m so close,” she cries, and his answering growl is better than any vibrator, reverberating through her cunt like thunder.

Those fingers catch just right inside of her, opening wide and when she feels teeth drag along her clit, she crumbles. Unravels at the seams and curves into him, legs pressing tightly against his form, body going taut and trembling. Every inch of her feels raw, vulnerable and exposed, and she falls back, whispers his name as tears slip out of the blindfold, his hand still tight in her grasp.

He pulls back, plants little kisses all along her inner thighs, and his fingers slip out of her, one at a time. Mason is quiet, but she can hear him licking them clean, and can imagine, in crystal clarity, the way his tongue laps at them, not wanting to waste a drop of her. 

“You taste so fucking good, Starlight,” he tells her and then his hand is at her side, fingers charting a map of damp circles against her hot flesh. He pulls his hand out of her hold and curls both around the back of her thighs, scooting her up. “Move up for me, sweetheart,” he purrs and she does her best to help, but her arms and legs feel like jelly, heavy and light and she groans, only managing a few inches before she goes limp, panting.

Mason follows her onto the bed, settles between her spread legs and the heat of him is almost overwhelming, engulfing her until it is almost impossible to breathe. He leans over her and lets a hand slide under her head, cradling it as he unties the blindfold. Tugs it away and she groans, the world a dazzle of lights and colors and too much.

She blinks, hazel eyes fighting to adjust as her sight returns, and everything is a blur, a mess of shadows and hues, but her eyes focus on him. He is hazy, at first, but soon she can make out features — the sharp contours of his face, the lean figure, and freckles, dozens of galaxies and constellations mapped across his brown skin, calling to her — and Cordelia smiles, heart quickening when he returns the expression, soft in his own way.

“Hey,” she whispers, raising her arms up and toward him. He meets her part of the way, tangles their fingers together and forces them back down, falling over her, mouth claiming hers in a kiss that is lazy, languid and loving. Cordelia nibbles at his bottom lip and he chuckles, pulling back mere inches, that gray gaze holding her own.

“Hey,” he returns, a whisper of his own, and the next kiss is firmer, a growing fire building between them. When he pulls away, she is gasping for air, and he smirks, and oh, how glad she is to see him now, to drink in the sight of him. “Doing okay, sweetheart?”

The concern is touching and she manages to lift herself off the bed, far enough to place a kiss to the tip of his nose, which wrinkles in response. “Never better, sunshine,” she teases, his smirk widening just enough to show a hint of teeth. 

“Good,” his voice is a growl, low and jolting, heat flooding back into her tender cunt. Mason pulls up, hands still locked in her own, and when she feels the tip of his cock brush against her folds, she writhes, gasping. “We’re not done yet, sweetheart,” he soothes and when he sinks into her, he moans, a husky sound that has her panting, legs twisting in the covers. “I told you, I was going to fuck you until you were a ruin,” he rocks into her and she whines, “until you’re full of nothing but me.”

She turns her head, buries her face against the sheets, and bites down on her cry, eyes fluttering closed. Mason tuts and pulls her up, off the bed and gathers her into his arms. His hands leave hers and he sits back, until her legs are bracketed on either side of his body and she is straddling him, red hair cascading around them in a fiery mess. 

Desperate with the need to hold on, she coils her arms around his neck and clutches at his back, traces the dips of his spine with her fingers. Hands settle at her waist and then slip down, gripping her ass with a bruising purpose. 

“That’s it Starlight,” he murmurs, lips against her cheek, at the corner of her mouth, “come on, sweetheart, let me fuck you, let me make you feel good.” 

His hips roll slow and calculated against her, wave after fluttering wave of pleasure ricocheting through her cunt, and it hurts, a little, but it feels so fucking good, too. She knows neither of them will last long, both too wound up and raw to go much longer, but they will ride this out together, and when she comes apart, he will join her. 

Lips forge a scorching trail down her throat, to the juncture of her shoulder and back up. His tongue laps at her pulse, racing still, and when she feels a scrap of something sharp, Cordelia turns her head, a silent invitation.

This part is new, too.

Fangs sink into her tender skin and there is a single, terrible moment where all she knows is white-hot pain, blinding her and she grasps for him, mouth opening in a silent scream. But then it is gone and a warm euphoria sweeps through her, fills her veins and leaves her floating, soaring. 

He drinks her like a man dying of thirst and she moans, rocks her hips down into him, and feels his snarl resound through her. The sound causes something to catch in her chest, ribs a too tight cage around her pounding heart. His tongue drags across the wound, careful not to waste a drop, and she wonders what her blood tastes like to him; is it sweet or bitter? She asked him before, after that night in the cave, but he evaded her question — mumbled something about honey and magic, cheeks flushed and eyes anywhere but her.

Perhaps she will ask again, perhaps this time he will tell her. It is a morbid curiosity, she knows, but it plagues her mind.

So lost is she in the haze of thoughts and pleasure, she does not realize his fangs are gone, replaced once more with the blunt edges of his teeth, until she feels one of his hands leave her ass. It slides around and slips down between them, two fingers swirling around her clit in a frenzied caress, and it is like being struck with lightning.

“Fuck!” Her voice is loud, crackling, and she bows forward, lips seeking any patch of skin she can find. Starts at the hinge of his chin then lower, nibbling and biting at his throat, leaving marks of her own, little bruises that will not last. Buries her face in the hollow of his neck and licks a stripe along his pulse, along his collarbone. Seeks out every freckle she can find, like catching stars in her teeth, and he fucks her.

Hard and fast and wild, both of them nearing their limits, the edge of how much they can take.

Mason leaves more marks on her, as well; a line of bruises she knows will be difficult, or impossible, to hide. “You feel so good inside of me, baby,” she moans, dragging her lips to his ear, teeth nipping at the shell, “come inside of me, Mason, I want you inside of me.”

“Fuck, Cordelia,” he says her name reverently, like it is something delicate and holy, and when he moans, she kisses him, swallows the sound greedily. 

All it takes is one more sweep of his fingers at her cunt and another roll of her hips and together, they break. He pulls out of the kiss as they both go taut; buries his face in the crook of her throat, as she hides her own against his hair, and their names mingle together in a beautiful symphony, a chorus of moans and sighs. He fills her entirely, a new fire seeping through her, and she shudders, shaking apart against him.

And then, it is over. The storm passes and leaves them spent, chests heaving and breathing shallow. Both are slick with sweat, from the heat created between them, and for a moment, her vision is white, stars dancing in her eyes, little sparks and fireworks, brilliant and blinding.

She falls and he follows, their limbs a tangled mess as they lie in the afterglow of their pleasure. Mason groans and then his mouth is at her throat, but the kisses he leaves are soft, more out of a need to feel her than a burning passion. 

“We should shower,” she murmurs, voice cracking at the edges, and when she laughs, it sounds brittle, “we’re pretty filthy now.”

“In a minute,” he pleads, rough and hoarse and so full of longing, nose bumping along the curve of her neck, “just, give me a minute.” Further down, his hand finds hers and when he tangles their fingers together, squeezing lightly, her heart swells. 

Mason is quiet now, content it seems to bask in her presence, and she smiles. Presses a kiss to his forehead and nods, eyes closing. “Okay,” she whispers, as he pulls closer, “a minute, then.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost posted this on it's own, heh.
> 
> Kudos and/or comments are appreciated! I'm also on [tumblr!](https://elmshore.tumblr.com/)


	26. leave the past behind (ava du mortain + sparrow du mortain-sewell)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Day 26: Past) Ava finds that leaving the past behind is not always easy, it is a part of her.

Ava is no stranger to war. In her nine hundred years of living, she has witnessed it countless times, fought for a multitude of reasons — some valid, many more trifling and pointless. She has walked battlefields stained crimson with the blood of soldiers, each rife with death and destruction, so much needless destruction. And even today, she is haunted by the memories; will wake in the night, drenched in a cold sweat, from the images that burn in her mind.

Yet this, she knows, is the most important battle she has ever faced.

The terrain is tricky, but nothing she cannot handle. Her only cover is a single couch — fortified, as best she could, with a plethora of pillows — and three recliners litter the path between her and her opponent, stationed behind the smaller loveseat. In the middle of the field rests a coffee table, declared neutral ground by Nat, and a place where peace talks might occur, if peace were an option.

Sadly, it is not.

“You should give up!” Shouts her enemy, his small voice echoing through the den — sorry, battlefield — and Ava scoffs, the mere idea of surrender preposterous. “I have the higher ground!”

“The ground is quite even, I assure you,” she retorts, taking a moment to adjust the dinosaur figurine in her hand, his little lance poking against her palm uncomfortably. 

Silence, and then, “Oh, I just heard Mom say that a few times,” and she fights to bite back a laugh at the confusion evident in his voice. Sparrow is frequently miming back lines he hears them say, even when the context is lost on him.

At her side rests a mini army of dinosaurs — four armored stegosauruses (Nat had been kind enough to spend a weekend making armor sets for the dinosaurs, painting portions of them in silver, gold, and a bit of bronze) and two triceratops — and in her hand, a lone brachiosaurus (or ‘long neck’ as Sparrow insists they are called), her ace fighter, Squire Tall.

They are trusted soldiers, their honor beyond question, and she knows they are ready to see this through to the bitter end. Only, she worries; they are fierce warriors, yes, but will they be able to stand against the Captain himself?

A mock battle cry rings through the den and she turns, daring a glance over the top of the couch, green eyes going wide. There, across the way and cresting over the ridge of the loveseat, is the Captain himself, a gold and silver Tyrannosaurus rex, carrying a sword — helpfully glued to his claw by Eden — and looking eager to find a victory in this campaign.

Sir Roar has arrived on the battlefield.

Then, as quickly as he appeared, he is gone; vanishing below the loveseat and Ava can hear her enemy moving, little legs carrying him past the farthest chair. He is on her right and she makes ready, Squire Tall in hand, only for the footsteps to cease. It goes quiet and she frowns, on edge, hackles rising. A noise on her left, something zooming just across the corner of her vision, and she turns, watching as a small, dented pterodactyl bounces along the carpet, dread creeping up her spine.

Damn, a decoy, which means — 

She has only seconds to react to the sound of feet pounding against the floor and when she turns, a blur slams into her side. The weight is nothing, less than a feather to her, but she gives a yell nonetheless and tumbles over, allowing the boy to climb atop her, his short arms raised high into the air as he gives a whoop of victory.

“We win!” And he sounds so thrilled, so very pleased with himself, that for a moment, Ava allows him to bask in the glory of his victory. But, only a moment. 

Her hands grab him, curl around his waist and hoist him up, off of her and into the air. Sparrow squirms against her hold, squealing and laughing, but her grip is iron-clad and when she rights herself, she spins him around and settles him in her lap, arms locking around his middle. “Always remember: never let your guard down, or the victory you fought so hard for can easily slip out of your hands.”

The boy grunts and after a little more wiggling, finally settles, tilting his head back to look up at her. Big, brown eyes — the same eyes as Nat, warm and full of love — lock with her own and he blinks, looking almost owlish, as he frowns. “How can victory slip out of your hands? Is it like water?”

“It is a figment of speech, little one.”

“Oh,” he hums, in a tone that is far too wise for one so young. Then, he grins, and it is a mirror of Eden, all teeth and joy and brightness. “But, we did good, right? We surprised you!”

And she could tell him that no, there had been no real surprise; that she could hear his heartbeat from every angle, track each footstep, but she holds her tongue. Chuckles, instead, and nods. “Yes, little one, you surprised me well.”

Sparrow falls silent and, for a moment, Ava is content to merely enjoy this moment; to bask in the feel of him in her arms, this little child that carries a piece of her within him, and even now, seven years later, that knowledge is enough to make her heart clench, something hot and tight coiling in her chest. She never imagined she would be here — happy and thriving, with a family to call her own — and yet, here she is.

It is a gift, a blessing, and one she is eternally grateful for, one she intends never to squander or lose.

“Mother?” He is moving Sir Roar back and forth across her knee, waddling steps that she barely feels through the thick fabric of her pants. “You used to be a knight, right?”

“Yes, but it was a long time ago,” she replies, thankful once more that Sparrow has accepted vague answers regarding ages. He is young and while he is good with his numbers, he cannot yet grasp the full scope of what it means when Eden — jokingly — calls her ancient or the way Nat will sometimes reminisce about days long since passed. 

Ava knows he is curious, a trait all three are careful to nurture in him, but he seems willing to take their answers at face value, for now.

They have yet to tell him of the supernatural, though Eden has made it clear they will not keep him in the dark forever, not like Rebecca did to them. And while Ava can understand the reasoning behind Agent Hollis’ decision to keep that world from her child, she agrees with her wife — Sparrow should know about the world he has been born into, even if it is one she will fight to keep him safe from at every turn.

“Why’d you stop?”

It is a fair question, but one that leaves her cold, chilled to the core, throat locked tight and mind scrambling, a haze of memories and emotions swirling like a hurricane, leaving her dizzy and off-balance. 

The answer is simple, and yet, so very complicated. How can she ever hope to tell this child — her child — that she ceased to be a knight the day her humanity was bled from her, as she died a different sort of death amidst the flames, losing a part of herself she can never hope to recover. She will not tell him that, not today, not ever. Does not want him to know that shameful part of her history, the day when her failures came crashing down upon her and she paid the steep price for her hubris, for her naivety.

He looks at her with so much love, so much trust, and Ava cannot bear the thought of losing that, of those eyes ever looking at her with revulsion, of seeing her as the monster she is.

So, she walks around the truth. A sort of falsehood, perhaps, but she prefers not to think of it that way; rather, she is protecting him — and herself — from harm. That, she finds, is an easier dose to swallow. “I stopped because it was time for me to do so,” she begins, testing the words on her tongue before she speaks, “sometimes, in life, you will find that there comes a time for you to move on, and that time found me, so I left the knighthood.”

Sparrow is quiet, no doubt turning the words over in his mind, and then he is twisting, wriggling in her grasp until he can face her, that mop of blond curls bouncing atop his head. “And they let you keep the sword?”

Ava cannot quite contain the smile that plays at the corner of her lips. She knows perfectly well, which sword he is referring to — has found him admiring it more than once, sitting on the bed she shares with the others, gaze fixed on the weapon that hangs well above his reach — and she lifts a hand, combing her fingers through his soft hair. “That sword belonged to my family, it was passed down to me, knighthood or no.” And she tries not to let the pain consume her, at the memory of the day her father handed her the weapon, pride shining in his hard eyes.

It is done, he is dead and gone and the pain is only an echo, one she is stronger than.

“Oh, then why do you keep it on the wall all the time? You should use it!”

“I am afraid, little one,” she chuckles, tapping a finger against one of his chubby cheeks, “that swords have fallen out of favor, where weapons are concerned. And it is precious, I would not risk it out in the field.”

Eden had been the one to convince her, finally, to hang the sword up; said that if she had no plans to use it, then better it be out and on display, than hidden away collecting dust.

The boy huffs, lips twisting into a scowl that she is _sure_ he learned from Mason. “Well, that’s dumb, swords are cool!” 

“I agree, but we must adhere to the rules of the world around us, whether we like them or not.” And here she can hear Eden’s voice, cheerfully quipping _only if the rules are fun_ , followed by a cheeky wink, the one that always manages to be both infuriating and endearing at the same time.

They are not one for rules, her Eden, and it continues to surprise her, that someone so chaotic in their lifestyle could capture her heart, and yet ensnare it they have.

“So is it just gonna stay on the wall forever?”

A part of her wants to say yes, while yet another part wants to say no; that it will be tucked away again, out of sight and out of mind, but she says neither of these things. Because there is something in his gaze, innocent and hopeful, that pulls at her — catches in her chest, like a hook, and tugs. Settles there, like the roots of a newly planted tree, and compels her to say, “No, one day, if you like, I shall pass it on to you.”

His smile is dazzling, brighter than the sun itself, and she is helpless as it draws out her own.

“Really?!”

“Yes,” she says, and takes his hands in her own, holding them tenderly as she leans forward, schooling her face into something neutral, serious. “But, only when you are older, and of course, I shall have to teach you how to handle it, first.”

Ava is sure she has never seen such a look of unbridled excitement on another in all her nine hundred years. The boy nods, head bobbing back and forth rapidly, as he leans forward, so quickly their foreheads bump together and he winces, nose wrinkling.

He is very nearly vibrating in anticipation as he asks, “When can you start teaching me?”

“Not until you are older,” she tells him and, once his groan of protest tapers off, continues, “and we need to discuss it with Mom and Mama, they will need to agree.”

“Mom will,” Sparrow proclaims, smile returning, “I know they will!”

Yes, Ava has no doubt that Eden will be thrilled at the idea of the boy — once he is older, of course — learning how to use a sword, since they have pestered her into lessons of their own. It is Nat, she worries, who will be harder to convince.

Still, that is a problem for later, and for now, there is another matter she must attend to. With ease, Ava rises from the floor and to her feet, bringing Sparrow along with her. Sets him down next to her and slips his hand into her own. “What say we find lunch first, and then we can discuss the possibility of you learning the art of swordsmanship?”

The boy taps his chin, looking thoughtful for a moment, before he nods, grinning up at her. “Okay! I’m hungry, and so is Sir Roar,” he adds, making sure to wave the toy in the air, as if to prove a point.

“Then we shall find food for the both of you,” and hand in hand, she leads him toward the kitchen, and away from their makeshift battlefield. Leaves the past there, as well, and resolves, as she has plenty of times before, to move on from it, to focus on what she has now, rather than what she has lost.

Because now, oh now she has so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and/or comments are appreciated! I'm also on [tumblr!](https://elmshore.tumblr.com/)


	27. come undone love (nate/female character)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Day 27: Unkempt) Yvette and Nate were meant to be doing research, but things get a little out of hand.
> 
> Note: Yvette is the cousin of my other detective, Cordelia, and is a part of her canon.

On its own, the prospect of researching ghouls seems a rather mundane task and, under any other circumstance, Yvette might have declined to help — she enjoys a good study session as much as the next woman, but there are limits to an interest — only, time is very much of the essence and there had been no one else available to help Nate.

Farah, she learned, is banned from the library indefinitely, after she apparently bent one of the books so terribly the spine cracked. Ava, meanwhile, is busy going over the upcoming mission parameters; planning routes and designating team pair-ups, to ensure the operation goes as smoothly as possible. And Cordelia had offered, of course, but the others were quick to shoot her down, citing that she needed further combat training, to make sure that her presence on the field would not be a liability. 

Her cousin is an intelligent woman, but there are some fights that words alone cannot win.

And Mason, of course, is with Cordelia. He had volunteered — far too willingly, she recalls — to assist her in said training, wearing a smirk that made him look downright wolfish. _No doubt their ‘training’ has taken on a whole new meaning_ , Yvette muses, but is quick to chide herself; after all, she is hardly in any position to judge.

Not when her own ‘research’ has moved from the topic of ghouls entirely.

The mouth covering her own is ravenous, insistent and frantic in its hunger. Warm lips roll over hers, wet and exploring, hot breathing wafting over her cheeks, leaving them damp and tingling. Nate slicks his tongue along hers, smooth as honey, and she drowns in the flavor of him — peppermint and tea and bergamot, popping in her mouth bright as candy — and her head spins, dizzy in a way that has Yvette wanting more.

They had lasted all of an hour before the tension between them, bristling and scorching in its intensity, became too much to ignore.

She cannot say for sure who made the first move, or who might have tipped the scales out of balance — perhaps it had been her thigh bumping against his, or his fingers, curling along her leg — only that, in a flash too fast for her humans eyes to comprehend, she found herself caged against a bookshelf, Nate leaning over her, their bodies flush together and mouths seeking one another's like moths to a flame.

Nate is stooped low, to accommodate her lack of height, and she knows the angle must be uncomfortable for him, but he hides it well. Seems too lost in her, really, to pay it much mind at all.

He hums, drags her bottom lip between his teeth and nibbles, sending waves of electricity zigzagging through her. It pools deep in her belly and uncoils, spreads like tendrils through her veins, and gathers at her center. Nate moves his leg, slots it between her own, and she gasps, his thigh pressed firmly against her center, eruptions of heat blossoming along her skin.

Yvette grinds against him instinctively, body craving the friction, and when he growls, the sound rumbles up deep from within his chest, and she swallows it, letting it pour down her throat and settle in her chest. 

His mouth leaves hers and travels lower, blazes a trail of desperate kisses across her heated skin. Lips trace over her chin and down the column of her neck, chasing the flush that consumes her, trying to taste it for himself. Nate licks a searing stripe over her racing pulse and Yvette moans, tipping her head back to allow him better access but, as usual, he ignores the invitation.

Nate never lingers long, at her throat; always so quick, she has found, to move on, as if he cannot trust himself. 

And she wants to tell him that it is okay, that she trusts him more than she trusts herself — a terrifying prospect, on its own — but she holds the words back, knows that they would not help him. It is an issue he must first be willing to face, and they are not there, not yet.

He reaches the juncture of her shoulder, leaving tiny lovemarks along the way, and then his hands are moving, springing into action. They slip up, past the hem of her shirt, and find the curve of her waist, seeking contact, skin to skin. His palms are so very warm — just like the rest of him, she has learned — and yet still, she shivers, and feels his lips spread into a smile against her flesh, pleased at the reactions he is able to pull from her.

“We’re supposed to be doing research,” she sighs, her hands grasping at the collar of his jacket, the soft fabric bunched between her shaking fingers, “and be at a meeting, soon.”

When he chuckles, the sound reverberates within her, and draws out another shuddering moan from her kiss swollen lips. “But this is research, love,” he murmurs, beginning his returning ascent, mount mapping over her jaw and finding her ear, nibbling at the outer shell. “I must commit your taste to memory, catalogue every beautiful sound that passes from your lips,” Nate dots kisses over her cheek, stopping inches from her mouth, “I want to learn every inch of you, where to touch you, to make you come undone for me, dearheart.”

The words are enough to make her whine, a low and needy thing, and now her hands ache with the urge to touch him, to feel his skin against her own. Her grip on his jacket loosens, lets go, and she lifts her fingers, frames them around his handsome face, and holds on. Sweeps her thumbs across his cheeks, tawny skin darkened by lust, and his smile grows, brilliant and warm like the sun.

A tug, one gentle pull, is all it takes and suddenly, he is kissing her once more, drinking her in like a man dying of thirst. They breathe together, shallow, air mingling until it becomes shared, and all she can taste is him, only him.

Yvette slides her hands up, tangles them through soft chestnut locks, and tries to pull him closer, until they are not two but one, intertwined and made whole. She feels his hands leave her waist, slide out of her shirt and down, over her hips and then around, his fingers curling at the back of her thighs. In one fluid motion, she is being lifted off the ground and it is enough to tear her out of the kiss, gasping as she locks her legs around his middle, cheeks burning red.

They are eye level now, and his brown eyes seem to soak in the sight of her, shining in the warm glow that fills the library, turning molten. “Forgive me, love,” he chuckles, that rich tone rougher at the edges now, sharpened by desire, “but I believe this angle will be far more beneficial to us both,” and despite her shock, she is inclined to agree.

“Maybe try to warn a lady next time, hm?” She tries to sound serious, but she is grinning despite herself, and he leans forward, nose bumping against her own. 

“I shall try, but I make no promises,” Nate murmurs, lips inches above her own, so tantalizingly close yet still so far, “after all, darling, some things are better left as surprises.” And she would argue that she has never been a fan of surprises, except his mouth is on hers yet again and words are a distant, hazy thing.

He hooks his arms under her thighs and holds her to him with ease, no doubt bothered little by the weight of her. Yvette works her fingers through his hair more, fights with the little bun he wears in the back and pulls it free, hears a faint hum as she grips the locks firmly, nails scraping against his scalp in soft, featherlight caresses. Against her, Nate shudders, and she feels something hard pressing against her thigh, the outline of his cock evident through his pants, and now she shudders too, heat flooding through her like a wildfire.

And this is all so new to her, this fire, this overwhelming passion that leaves her breathless, off-balance and floating. She has loved before, deeply — thoughts of Sacha bubble up, a dull ache that never fully heals — but this is different, like nothing she has ever felt before. 

It scares her, but she is helpless to fight against it, drawn to him by some pull she cannot name, tied by an invisible thread too powerful to sever.

Nate breaks out of the kiss, leaves her panting for air, and charts a course over her cheek, along her jaw, each touch of his lips burning like a brand. “You are intoxicating, love, a nectar I never tire of tasting,” he purrs and the words are like a jolt, straight to her core, “I want to taste every inch of you, to feel you unravel at my touch,” and she can feel his fingers, sliding over her inner thighs, hot even through her jeans, and she writhes in his hold.

His breath drifts over her ear and she shivers, rolls her hips against him and is rewarded with a low moan, sweeter than any song ever composed by man. Nate meets her action, rocks into her, and for a moment, her vision goes white, all rational thought lost to her, replaced only by the need of him. “You will be my undoing, dearheart,” he rumbles and there is something reverent in his voice, so full of awe and adoration, like a man who has found religion for the first time. 

“The feeling,” Yvette manages, each word sticky like syrup on her tongue, nearly catching in the back of her throat, “is quite mutual, I assure you.”

Their foreheads bump together lightly and his brown eyes are locked on her blue ones, glinting with an affection that might drown her, if she lets it. “If this love is to be the end of me,” he says, lips dropping a kiss to her nose, “then I shall welcome it happily.”

His words catch in her chest, a hook digging into her heart and pain blossoms through her, sudden and cold and terrible. Yvette shakes her head, untangles her hands from his hair and cups his face between them, panic skittering along her nerves. “No,” she tells him and it is sharp, more frantic than she intends, “no endings, not for us, don’t ever say that.”

Something she recognizes as worry flashes in those warm eyes and she knows he understands, that there is no need to explain her reaction, not to him, not to this man who can read her like she were one of his many books, open her up and find pieces of her, long tucked away and out of view. 

Nate opens his mouth to speak, to no doubt apologize for the wording, but she captures his lips with his own and swallows the words, relishes in the feel of him. Basks in the scent of him — clove and vetiver, warm and comforting — and in the knowledge that he is here with her still, present and unwavering and _hers_ , if she can only find the courage to reach out, to give herself over to him fully.

He meets her kiss with a fervor that leaves her breathless and when his tongue slips past her lips, she invites it in eagerly, tangles it with her own, and like that, all of her fears and worries and insecurities are gone, evaporating like tendrils of smoke. And she is ready to lose herself, to fall into this with no hesitation, only now he is pulling away, dipping out of the kiss with a groan and Nate lowers his head, buries his face in the crook of her shoulder, and she wants to ask what is wrong, but another voice rings through the library, bright and cheerful and so very unwelcome right now.

“Natey! Evie! The meeting is about the start,” Farah calls, and though she cannot see them, Yvette has a feeling that the youngest vampire knows _exactly_ what they have been doing, “and Ava wants you both there now!”

“All right, thank you,” Nate replies, voice slightly muffled, and Yvette can hear Farah giggling, the sound bouncing through the room even as she leaves. He sighs and, with great reluctance, sets her down, hands settling at her waist when her legs shake. “It seems we are needed elsewhere,” he mutters, and the pout on his face is adorable, causing her to grin despite her own annoyance.

They are both a mess, she knows; clothes unkempt and in disarray, faces flushed. She reaches up, fusses with his hair, tries to put it to rights, but he only laughs and catches her wrists in his hands, holding them gently. Pulls them down and kisses her fingertips, each brush of his lips like a shockwave over her skin. 

“Leave it,” he smiles, and laces their fingers together, tugging her away from the bookshelf and out of the aisle, toward the library door. “I am rather fond of the mess you’ve made of me, love,” and now she laughs, following along after him.

“Wait until after the meeting,” she quips, tucking herself against his side as they walk, careful to flick off the light as they pass through the doorway, “I’ll show you how much of a mess I can make of you.”

His breath catches and she spies a bit of heat returning to his cheeks, darkened by the flush. Nate curls an arm around her waist, fingers tapping against her hip, and his grin shifts, morphs into something hungry, brown eyes half-lidded. “I hope that is a promise,” he murmurs, dropping a kiss to the top of her head, “because I very much intend to hold you to it, dearheart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and/or comments are appreciated! I'm also on [tumblr!](https://elmshore.tumblr.com/)


	28. going down (nate/nb detective)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Day 28: Vengeful) Bellamy decides to get a bit of revenge, after Nate spends an evening toying with them.
> 
> This is also a prompt fill that I received, for Bellamy and Nate to get frisky in an elevator. Also: if any of these endearments are wrong, I apologize, and would be happy to correct them, if anyone can offer adjustments. Google can only do so much.

Someone, somewhere, once said that _every day brings with it new things to learn and discover_. Bellamy can’t quite recall just who might have said the words, or where they even heard them to begin with, but they suppose that it hardly matters, in the end. Because really, the point is that after tonight, there is no way they’ll ever be able to deny the truth in that statement.

Because this evening, they have learned not one, but _two_ very important lessons.

Firstly, that never again will they take _any_ advice from one Tina Poname regarding shoe choices. And secondly that, when he truly wants to be, Nathaniel Sewell can be one of the most infuriating men on the planet.

Which, given that they know Bobby Marks, is saying a lot.

Now, to be fair, the former discovery is hardly what they would call a surprise. Bellamy has known Tina since they were in middle school together and really, it’s their own fault for even daring to _mention_ that they would be attending a party, because if there is one thing Tina is infamous for — and she is infamous for _plenty_ of things — it would be her love of playing dress-up. Either on herself, or others, it hardly matters; if she can mess around with clothes and make-up, then Tina Poname is _there_.

And, before today, that has never really been a problem for Bellamy. No, they’ve always been quite happy in their assortment of dark jeans and even darker hoodies, and well, parties have never exactly been clogging up their calendar.

Typically, most parties — or, the ones worth going to at least — tend to require having _friends_ , when it comes to the whole invitation aspect, and that’s never really been their forte. Hell, they can count the number of friends they have on one hand, and half of them were made only semi-recently. Besides, why would they _willingly_ choose to go to some random house, filled with people they barely know, just to listen to bad music and drink cheap alcohol?

Bellamy can do all of that from the comfort of their own apartment, just sans the people, which really, makes it better.

So, yeah, parties just aren’t their thing. Neither is dressing up, and yet here they are — wearing a too-short dress (and fine, it stops at the knees, but _anything_ that shows their legs is _too much_ in their opinion, otherwise people might realize they have a physical form underneath all the layers they pile onto themselves and that just won’t stand), and carrying a pair of black heels (the murderous things were the _first_ to go, once they were free), on their way back to their room after having just spent three and a half miserable hours at a party they were only _marginally_ invited to.

The back of their legs, all the way down to their ankles, hurt; muscles sore and burning and they make a mental note that, the next time they see Tina, they’re going to just chuck these damn heels straight at her head. Still, at least the Agency had been kind enough to invest in decent carpet — it feels soft and plush under their pained feet.

A quiet, barely there, hum catches their attention and they toss a glance to their left, brown eyes narrowing. 

Oh, right, _him_.

The reason they were even in this mess to begin with.

Nate walks at their side, long legs slowed to keep time with them, and he looks content, lips curved into a soft smile. Usually, the expression would make _them_ smile, heart fluttering and nerves comforted, but right now, all it does is cause their glare to darken, mouth twisting into a frustrated scowl as they tear their eyes away from him and focus on the hallway ahead. 

Of course _he_ can be all happy and carefree, he isn’t the one who just spent far too many hours standing in a room full of strangers, stuck in a dress that feels too revealing and shoes that, Bellamy assumes, must have been designed by Satan himself.

Jerk.

He not only invited them to a party they had no real interest in attending, giving them no option but to accept or risk potentially hurting his feelings, since he had seemed keen on going, but he proceeded to spend the entire party being an absolute menace.

Between all of the totally _casual_ touches — hands running along their lower back, fingers ghosting over their bare arms, standing closer than necessary at all times — and the glances, eyes half-lidded and dark with a hunger they’ve come to know well on him, it’s a miracle they managed _not_ to spontaneously combust on the spot. And it would have been one thing, if the party were filled with plain, boring humans, but Bellamy is pretty damn sure that every supernatural in attendance knew _exactly_ what Nate had been doing.

Or, at the very least, Bellamy doubts their own reactions had gone unnoticed.

And then, as if to rub salt in the wound, the minute they were out of the party, he went right back to his normal demeanor — maintaining a careful distance between them, close but not _too_ close — and the only thing he seemed interested in now is making sure they get back to their room safe and sound.

Further ahead, the elevator comes into view and Bellamy sighs, relief flooding through them. They’re tired, sore, and annoyingly enough, turned on, so all they really want to do is go back to their room and… take care of things, perhaps, then maybe pass out in bed for a couple of hours. 

They could, of course, ask Nate to join them for the first part — and maybe for the second, he makes an excellent pillow — but that feels a bit like defeat, as if they were playing right into his hands, and their pride is far too strong to allow that.

“Did you enjoy yourself tonight, love?”

His voice catches them off guard, loud in the quiet of the hallway, and they start, head whipping around to look at him, stray curls — flyaways from the bun Tina forced their hair into — landing in their eyes. It takes them a second longer than it should, to register the question, and Bellamy clears their throat, fingers moving to brush the curls aside, eyes sliding back toward the elevator.

“Uh, yeah, it was fun.” A lie, but they know he won’t call them out on it — he may be insufferable at times, but he lets them have their little white lies. Most of the time, at least.

“I’m glad, I know such gatherings are low on your list of favorable pastimes,” he says and they almost snort, the sound rising quickly in their throat before they shove it back down, “but I am happy you made an exception for me, love, I greatly enjoyed your company this evening.”

 _Oh, I’m sure you did_ , they muse, the words right on the tip of their tongue before they chew them up and choke them back down. “Well, it was hard to say no when you asked so nicely,” they say, instead.

And he had asked nicely, venturing the invitation early one morning while they lay entangled in bed, limbs intertwined and bodies flush together, skin to skin. Bellamy had still been too asleep to really hear the words and only realized later, what they had agreed to.

Lesson number three: Nathaniel Sewell is far too sneaky for his own good.

He laughs and for a moment, one traitorous moment, their irritation melts away. Nate is good at that — _too_ good, truthfully — because right now, Bellamy wants to be angry and mad at him, not left feeling warm and content.

“I shall remember that, when further invitations arise in the future,” he teases and they risk another glance toward him, only to immediately regret doing so. He is looking at them, adoration and affection and something else, almost _mischievous_ , shining in those lovely brown eyes. And that is still new to them, the knowledge that this man — annoyed as they are with them, at the moment — can still make them feel so completely and utterly loved, with only a gaze.

Bellamy quickly looks away, eyes falling to the floor, and scoffs. “I’m wise to you now,” they mutter, arms folding across their chest, heels bumping against their side, “so don’t think you’re tricking me into attending anymore parties!”

“Trick? Darling, I am hurt and offended that you would even _think_ to accuse me of such a heinous thing!” Except, the laughter hanging over his tone makes it clear that he’s anything _but_ hurt.

Rolling their eyes, Bellamy slows to a halt as they finally reach the elevator, and turns to face him. “Uh-huh, you’re not fooling anyone, Agent Sewell, least of all me.”

Nate smiles and it softens his whole face, in a way that makes something catch in their chest, right under their heart. He stretches out a hand, pressing the button to call the elevator and chuckles, the sound only fueling the flames still smoldering within them, coiling deep in their stomach and threatening to spread. “I assure you, Detective Santos,” and his voice is a purr, enough to make their knees shake, “I would never make any attempt to fool you, love.”

Mercifully, the elevator spares them from having to respond. The metallic doors slide open, a faint _ding_ ringing in the air between them, and Nate turns, gesturing for them to enter first, that damn smile still on his lips. They step inside, aware of how he follows behind them, and the heat of him is overwhelming, seeping into every inch of them, and just like that, something deep within them snaps.

A final tether, meant to keep their irritation and lust in check, and they hear it, like the crack of a whip.

They wait only long enough for him to tape the correct number, heavy doors sliding shut, before they make their move.

Bellamy pivots to face him, shoes slipping from their fingers and clattering silently to the carpeted floor beneath them. They lunge, hands landing against his chest, fingers splaying out wide, brown skin stark against the white of his shirt, and he stumbles, back bumping against the wall, and now that smile is gone, replaced with a look of utter shock, brows rising and eyes going wide.

It is, they think, a very good look on him.

“Love, what — ” but his words are silenced, swallowed by their mouth over his, and for a split second, he freezes, goes still as a statue under their touch. Bellamy rises up on their toes, pressing closer, and this, it seems, is enough to snap him into action. He moans, a low reverberating sound that echoes from his chest and rattles into their own, and then he is shifting, stooping lower to meet them halfway, hands sliding down their arms, fingers curling around their elbows and locking them into place.

His tongue slips past their lips and slicks over their own, soft as velvet, and they are full now with the flavor of him — clove and cinnamon, sweet and warm, almost numbing — and it is dizzying, head swimming from the taste. 

When they pull away, he chases them, seeking their mouth with his own, and yet Bellamy leans back, out of his reach. They do their best to ignore the pounding of their heart and the way their cheeks burn, matching the flush now darkening his tawny skin, aglow with desire. His eyes flutter open, black slowly consuming the brown hue, and Nate rolls his lips, as if trying to taste them again.

This boldness is new, unexpected of them, and while it is a little terrifying, to step into a role so normally occupied by Nate, at the moment, Bellamy finds that they don’t care. Because right now, all they _do_ care about is having their revenge, against him and his need to toy with them.

Legs quivering, they lower themselves before him, and as their hands catch at his belt, shaking fingers working the buckle loose, they hear his breath catch, and suddenly he has a hold of their wrists, forcing them still. “Bellamy,” he gasps, and oh, they love the way he sounds right now, tone husky and rough at the edges, “love, what are you doing?” 

Bellamy thinks it should be obvious, considering they are currently on their knees in front of him and attempting, slowly, to open his pants, but they decide to humor him nonetheless.

“Having my vengeance,” they quip, freeing themselves from his hold and continuing their task, “you thought what, you’d just spend all night teasing me and get away with it? Not this time, Agent.” The belt loosens, goes slack, and they move on, fingers sliding down to the zipper. Bellamy tugs it down as above, Nate releases a strangled sound, halfway between a gasp and moan.

It is easy enough to slip their hand inside the pants and further still, past the hem of his boxers. Their fingers wrap around his cock and oh, but he is hard, straining as they drag their hand down his length. His hands flex, pressed flat against the wall behind him, and they risk a glance up, heart slamming into their throat.

Nate watches them, eyes half-lidded and engulfed fully in the shadows of lust, pupils blown wide and dark. His mouth is parted, tongue darting out to slide across his bottom lip, and the sight of him, trembling under their touch, is enough to set them aflame, skin flushing and the heat that fills them is electric. Zigzags across their skin, down their spine, and gathers between their legs, inner thighs slick now with their own arousal.

Carefully, they pull him free of his confines and he is heavy in their hand, a pleasant weight that has them aching in want. Precum beads at the tip and Bellamy sweeps their thumb across it, gathers it up and uses it on their descent, strokes slow and measured.

“ _Merde_ ,” he growls, hips bucking forward of their own volition, and Bellamy is no expert with languages, but they know a swear when they hear one. One of his hands moves, slides against their cheek and cradles the side of their face gently, as if with a single wrong touch, they might shatter to pieces. “Love, you don’t need to — ”

“I want to,” they murmur, breath drifting across his length and Nate groans, eyes shuttering closed, “besides, isn’t this what you wanted, tormenting me all evening?”

He starts to speak, to no doubt defend himself, but the words become a hitching gasp as Bellamy closes their lips around the head of his cock and he moans, a deep sound that echoes through them, settling low in their chest. With one easy motion, Nate slides his hand up and tangles it amidst their curls, nimble fingers working the bun loose, and their hair spills down, bouncing to their shoulders, a wave of relief washing over them. His hand settles at the back of their head, grip firm but never painful, and for a moment, neither of them move, adjusting to the feel.

In the end, and keeping with the new theme of the evening, it is Bellamy who moves first. 

Their hand is still wrapped around the base of his cock and they resume their strokes, mouth still wrapped around the tip. Bellamy swirls their tongue around the head, lets it drag across the slit, and Nate snarls, the noise filling the small space around them, rings in their ears and skitters down their spine. Blunt nails scrape against their scalp and they can feel his grip shuddering, fighting against the urge to pull them closer.

So, they do it for him. Bellamy dips forward, takes him deeper into their mouth, and then pulls back, keeps their lips locked around the head, nibbles at the tip, and hears a loud _thud_ , glancing up to find his head thrown back, eyes closed and chest rising in short, shallow breaths. They repeat the action, time it with the stroke of their hand, and oh, the sounds he makes are music to their ears, a chorus of moans and growls, each one darker and deeper than the last, so very unlike the soft timber of his voice when he speaks to them, when he confesses over and over the love he has for them, his adoration for their presence in his life.

Bellamy finds it difficult, in this moment, to decide which they like hearing better.

Above them, Nate is murmuring like a man lost in passion, switching between languages they have no knowledge of and it is a joy to see this man who is so normally composed unravel like this, knowing it is because of them. Their tongue licks a stripe down the side of his length, hand settling at the base, and he starts, hips jerking forward, cock sinking further into them. 

Below, their cunt aches, desire coiling tight in their belly, and they moan, but the sound is muffled, their mouth full of him. Their hand moves, slides up their dress and for the first time tonight, Bellamy is grateful for the garment, the ease it provides — so much quicker, than fighting with buttons and zippers — and the first brush of a finger, dragging across the front of their soaking underwear, has them shivering.

They pull their other hand away from his cock, curl it around his thigh, and lean forward, taking him in further, as far as they can. Nate hisses their name, lips forming around each syllable beautifully, and they slip past their final barrier, dipping two fingers between their wet folds, the touch striking like lightning.

“You are amazing, _eshgham_ ,” he breathes, fingers coiling through their curls, and Bellamy does not recognize the language, nor the meaning, but the adoration in his tone makes his intent crystal clear. “Are you touching yourself, dear heart? Are thinking of me, while you pleasure yourself?” 

Bellamy whines, swirls a thumb over their clit and already, they can taste him; tart, but not bitter, and they don’t really have a point of reference for the flavor, only that it isn’t unpleasant. His hand falls, tucks under their chin and he tilts their head back, enough that they can meet his gaze, and it would be so easy, to drown in those eyes, to be consumed by the enormity of his love for them.

He sweeps a thumb across their cheek, connects little invisible lines between the freckles that lie there, and smiles, face stained dark but somehow glowing. 

“ _Ātashé del-am_ ,” that language again, flowing like honey from his lips, and it coils around them, like tendrils of vapor. Puts down roots in their heart, blooming and beautiful. Nate sounds breathless and they are sure to keep their gaze on him, as they slip inside of themselves. “That’s it, love,” he urges, hunger present in his eyes, fierce and primal, “I can smell you, darling, can almost taste you on my tongue.” 

There is no resistance as they sheathe themselves in deep, body welcoming and pliant. Bellamy crooks their fingers up, curves them _just so_ , and now they are burning, those flames a wildfire engulfing them from the inside out, turning their blood molten. Their fingers flare out, slick and scissoring, and it takes only a moment, before they find just the right rhythm, before they are fucking themselves, wishing desperately that it were his fingers buried inside of them.

Leaning back, his cock slips out of their mouth with a quiet _pop_ , and their head tilts, lips closing around the side of his length, tongue lavishing as they slide down, to the base. Distantly, Bellamy is aware of a faint _ding_ , and Nate shifts, arm jutting out as he slams a hand against the console, blindly pressing for another floor, cursing softly.

“Good thing no one was there, huh?” Nate huffs, torn between annoyance and amusement, sagging back against the wall. They pull up, lips closing around the head, and their tongue darts out, circling the tip, gathering yet another bit of precum, and he moans, that hand returning to their hair, firmer this time. Bellamy knows it’s dangerous to drag this out — they might not be so lucky, when the next floor arrives — but a part of them enjoys the thrill, the risk of being caught.

Nate, however, seems to have other plans.

He gives them no warning and in a flash, too quick for their humans eyes to track, the world around them blurs. Nate pulls them to their feet, hurried yet gentle in his motions, and all too suddenly, their positions are reversed. His mouth claims theirs as he cages them back against the wall, lips rolling together and as his tongue slicks over their own, smooth as velvet, his hands settle at the curve of their waist.

Can he taste himself on their tongue? 

The thought alone is enough to send a jolt of heat straight to their core and Bellamy groans, winding their arms around his neck, fingers threading through soft locks. Nate hums and the sound rumbles down their throat, his hands passing over their hips and down, wrapping around the back of their thighs. He lifts them as if they weigh nothing — and they likely don’t, not to him — and out of instinct, their legs curl around his middle, tugging him flush against them.

When he pulls out of the kiss, they chase his mouth, teeth catching on his bottom lip and he growls, his hold on them tightening. There is a moment then, where grace is forgotten in favor of frantic need, and their dress is shoved up, bunching at their waist, as he slips a hand down, slotting it between their legs.

Nate wastes little time, driven by a need for them and, likely, a fear of what might be waiting, when those doors open again, fingers tugging their underwear aside and when he sinks into them, their moans tangle together, impossible to tell where one begins and the other ends. His lips trace a burning path down the column of their neck to the top of their chest, tongue licking a stripe over their racing pulse. 

“You are so wet, love,” he murmurs and they whine, hips rolling against him erratically, craving the friction. His mouth is like a brand against their tender flesh and when he rocks into them, hips snapping forward, they cry, head falling back. “You wanted to know,” he continues, voice dark as night, husky and rough, “what I hoped to accomplish, by teasing you earlier, did you not?”

They want to respond, but their words are sticky and jagged, caught in their throat, and all they can do is pant, mind going blank with each thrust. 

Mercifully, Nate doesn’t press them for an answer. “I have wanted you from the moment I saw you earlier this evening, so beautifully dressed, as if you stepped out of a painting,” he purrs, lips at their ear, teeth grazing along the outer shell, “you have ruined me, dear heart, with one word I will fall willingly before you, with one look I am wholly yours.”

Tears prick at the corner of their eyes, too many emotions swirling within them like a maelstrom, and they can only manage a whisper, his name tumbling from their lips like a prayer.

“I am here, my love,” he says, lips at the corner of their mouth, his tenderness at odds with the way he fucks them, hard and fast and so utterly desperate. Nate slips his hand past the hem of their underwear, draws frenetic circles around their clit, and their scream is muffled by his mouth over their own, swallowing their cry.

Another soft _ding_ to their right and now it is their turn to react, unhooking an arm from his neck to reach for the console, fingers smashing the button for their floor out of habit, only dimly aware that Nate has sent them straight to the basement. 

The elevator starts, doors closing, and as they begin to move, Nate breaks the kiss, forehead pressed against their own. Their breath mingles, hot and damp over their cheeks, and below, his hands slide up, gripping their ass with an almost bruising purpose. “Will you come for me, darling? Will you come apart for me, like a beautiful ruin?”

“Nate, _please_ ,” they beg, unsure of exactly what they are pleading for — everything and anything at once — and suddenly, their earlier anger and frustration fails to matter. It falls away and all that is left is their need for him, that wonderful ache building inside of them as he rolls their hips against theirs, flutters of pleasure resounding through their cunt.

They are both so close, Bellamy can feel it, and they want to fall, to lose themselves completely.

Fingers swirl at their clit, incessant and unyielding, and deep in their belly, that sensation builds. His mouth is everywhere, all at once, pressing kisses to their eyelids and cheeks, along their jaw, over the jut of their chin, and down, leaving no inch of their skin untouched, tasting every inch of them he can reach.

His hips snap forward, and oh, he is almost there now, cock twitching inside of them. “That’s it, _mi vida_ , you’re so close,” they soothe, lips against his temple, tasting the salt that now slicks his skin, “go on, baby, I want to feel you inside of me.”

Nate growls, but the sound dissolves into a broken cry as he comes undone, and he presses closer, burying his face against the hollow of their neck. His thrusts are erratic, harsh and a little painful, but then he stills, body going taut, and they can hear their name, whispered amidst endearments, in languages so old they are sure none but him are left alive to speak them.

And a familiar warmth is spreading through them now, filling them and they moan — a wanton thing, filthy and mewling — as they near the edge of their own pleasure, feet dangling off the edge. They are full of him and it is strange, yet so utterly wonderful.

He presses hard, open-mouthed kisses against their throat, and he is moving again, rocking into them slowly, fingers offering them no reprieve. “Let me hear you, _jāné del-am_ ,” he pleads, and there is nothing they would not do for him, no request or ask they would not rush to fulfill, if it meant hearing him like this, breathless and trembling, unraveling at the seams.

All it takes is one final thrust, a thumb rolling over their clit, and they free fall. Stars burst along their vision before it goes white and they are blind, mind a haze of pleasure and want and _him_ , Nate, only Nate. His name tumbles from their lips, repeated like a litany, interwoven with a string of Spanish, all of it said without thought. And through it all, Nate fucks them, allows them to ride out of the storm and cling to him, hands grasping at his back, the fabric of his coat — finely made, they know — clutched between shaking fingers.

Bellamy floats down from their high, out of breath and gasping, every inch of them aflame. For a moment, one quiet and glorious moment, they both go still, content to simply exist together, and when he kisses them, it is like coming home. 

Gently, his hands move; slide down from their ass to the back of their thighs and he pulls their legs from around him. Sets them down, keeping a hold of their waist when they stumble, hands clinging to the front of his shirt and he stoops down, plants a kiss to their forehead, sweet and chaste, nothing like the hungry kisses shared between them only moments earlier.

They can feel something warm and thick seeping out of them, and the sensation is odd, unfamiliar. It sends a fresh wave of heat flooding back into their cheeks and they watch as silently, he puts himself back to rights. Zips his pants and fixes his belt back into place, face calm, but hands still quivering — only a little, but there all the same.

Bellamy reaches for him, lifting their arm to brush a few stray locks of hair from his face, and he smiles, catches their wrist in his hand and kisses their palm. Nuzzles his cheek against it, eyes locked on their own, and their heart stutters in their chest, pounding like a drum, an uneven rhythm.

And they want to speak, to say something — _anything_ , really — but that damn _ding_ is back, doors sliding open, and suddenly, any words they might have said turn to ash in their mouth, embarrassment rushing in like a tidal wave.

A woman stands there, sharply dressed, a stack of files tucked neatly against her chest, and for a moment, she looks surprised to see them, deep blue eyes darting between them before she smiles; a serene expression, but one that clearly indicates she knows _exactly_ what they had been up to.

Shame roots them to the spot, and so it is Nate who reacts. He slips a hand into their own and takes a step forward, giving the woman a friendly nod. “Good evening, Ms. Ambroise, going up or down?”

“Up,” the woman — Ms. Ambroise, apparently — replies, and there is something in her voice, a deep, melodic quality that washes over Bellamy, leaves oddly at ease, nerves going lax. _She isn’t human_ , a voice in their mind hisses, and they almost scoff, because of course she isn’t.

Very few people in this place are, after all.

They exchange places — Ms. Ambroise enters, they exit — and the whole time, Bellamy can feel her gaze on them, piercing in a way that feels different, ancient. But whatever the woman might be thinking, she keeps to herself and only offers a simple, “Enjoy the rest of your evening,” before the doors close, and they are left in the silence of the hallway.

Bellamy lets out a groan, face buried in their hands, and shakes their head. “She totally knows we just had sex in the elevator,” they lament, and when Nate’s only response is to laugh, they shoot him a glare. “How is this funny? It isn’t funny!”

“I apologize, love,” Nate chuckles, wrapping an arm around their middle and tucking them close to his side, turning as he heads down the hallway, pace matching their own, “but there is no need to worry, Ms. Ambroise is a discreet woman — ”

Another groan, louder this time, and he waits, until it tapers off.

“ — and besides, I feel no shame in my desire for you,” he continues, ducking low to place his lips next to their ear, voice smooth as silk, “I adore you, dear heart, why should I mind if the world knows it?”

It really is a miracle, they think, that they have managed _not_ to combust into flames by this point, with the way he carries on. And it would be so easy, to write off his words, to wave them away as pretty little things, but Bellamy knows that he means every word; Nate is sincere in his affections, open and honest and it still throws them off balance, the way he makes no effort to hide his love of them.

Still amazes them, that someone even _looks_ at them, the way he does.

“You keep talking like that,” they manage, words strained as they try to compose themselves, arms folding over their chest, “and I’m going to expect a round two.”

“Oh, darling,” he purrs, warm breath sending shivers down their spine, “what makes you think a round two was not already in the cards?”

The trek back to their room is completed in record time, and as the door shuts behind them, his mouth on their own and his hands leaving no inch of them untouched, Bellamy can’t even be mad to realize that they left their shoes in the elevator.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and/or comments are appreciated! I'm also on [tumblr!](https://elmshore.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  _Merde_ \- French, A curse word.  
>  _Eshgham_ \- Persian, means: My love.  
>  _Ātashé del-am_ \- Persian, means: The fire of my heart.  
>  _Mi vida_ \- Spanish, means: My life. Thanks to the amazing Silvia for the advice on this! <3  
>  _Jāné del-am_ \- Persian, means: The life of my heart.


	29. blood and marigolds (falk/female character)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Day 29: Veil) Aoife Sìthean is a fae working for the Agency, assigned to be the new liaison for the Maa-alused, and she finds herself called out for a rather strange assignment.
> 
> This is **part one** of a two-part series, the follow-up will be posted shortly, for Day 30.

The moment she steps out of the vehicle, feet landing in the damp grass below, Aoife can _feel_ the magic of this place all around her. It fills the air — light and warm, yet overwhelming, heavy and old — and the hum of it dances on her skin, like a breath of fresh air, a welcome change after spending so long amidst the human cities, surrounded by technology and cold, lifeless stone.

Not that she minds the technology, she adores the uses it has, but she is fae; magic and nature are a part of her, intertwined in her blood, and this feels a little like coming home.

Aoife takes a deep breath, lets it fill her lungs and smiles, the magic coiling around her like a blanket. Nothing will ever match the air of the Courts, where magic is a part of everything, in the air and water and soil, but this… well, it comes a little closer than anything she has felt in a long time.

Behind her, the sound of a car door being shut and she turns, catching sight of the woman now making her way around the vehicle.

Dressed sharply in a two piece business suit, navy blue and white, everything pressed and in its proper place, she should look out of place; at odds, even, with the wilderness around them, but of course, she doesn’t. If there is one thing Aoife has learned about the woman headed her way, heels crunching over the leaves that litter the ground, it’s that she is _never_ out of place, no matter the setting or the situation.

Sorina Ambroise — known to many within the Agency as Ms. Ambroise, a sort of cautionary politeness — is a woman that, despite her best efforts, Aoife has yet to fully crack. And while she has every intention of continuing to try, the fae knows, deep down, that this is one mystery she will likely never solve. 

Both a demon and a witch, Sorina is an enigma, and the source of much gossip around the facility. Indeed, Aoife has found that no one seems to be sure of exactly _where_ she hails from, only that it is not the Echo World, and this is because it is, apparently, the one nugget of information the woman is willing to share, always carefully evading the question of her origins with a smile and a look in those too-blue eyes that seems to warn of caution, of not prying too deeply into things best left unknown. 

In fact, all anyone knows for certain about her is that she has been with the Agency since its inception.

Never mind that simply being next to the woman is sometimes a suffocating affair. As a fae, Aoife is more sensitive to magic than other supernaturals, and it is impossible to ignore the sheer power that radiates from the other woman. It feels ancient, captivating and terrifying, and in the end, it only raises more questions than answers.

Even so, Aoife _does_ enjoy the company of the other woman, who now acts as her supervisor. Sorina had been the one to find her, when she first arrived in this world, running from the Courts and a marriage she never wanted, and were it not for the demon, she likely would have wandered, lost and unsure. 

She has found a home in the Agency, friends and a purpose, and she knows in the end that she has Sorina, to thank for that.

“Are you all right?” Sorina is standing beside her now, a look of concern on her lovely face.

That voice, rich as honey, pulls Aoife straight out of her thoughts and she laughs, the sound bubbling up her throat and past her lips as she nods, strawberry blonde curls bouncing around her face. “Oh sure,” she quips, throwing the taller woman a wink, “you know me, I’m always great!”

Sorina hums, a smile playing at the corner of her lips — coated a lovely shade of soft coral pink — and she smooths a hand over her skirt. “Yes, you do tend to remain ever the optimist,” she says, and there is affection in her tone, though some might miss it, mistake her serene tone for passive disinterest. “You understand the reason we are here, yes? I hope you read the mission report, this time.”

A prickle of embarrassment skitters up her spine and Aoife feels her cheeks heating, a flush staining the fair skin crimson and she looks away, green eyes landing on a nearby tree, covered in lichen and moss. 

“It was one time,” she mutters, lips forming a pout as she sighs, “but yes, I did read this one, front to back, and then back again!”

“Good, because this assignment is still new,” Sorina explains, and Aoife dares a glance back toward her, watching as the woman tucks a stray lock of golden blonde hair behind her ear, “and I would hate to see it be taken from you, after all the work you put in.”

It is a sentiment that Aoife shares as well, no matter how blithe she may seem about the position she has found herself in. Being assigned as the new liaison between the Agency and the Maa-alused had come as a shock, considering that ever since joining, the group have dealt exclusively with Cordelia due to their leader, Falk, forming a bond of respect with her. But, Cordelia has other responsibilities to take care of, and she is often kept busy with both her job as a detective and helping Unit Bravo, so it makes sense that the Agency would want to lighten her load, if only a bit.

Nothing has been said on the topic, but Aoife is sure that either Sorina or Cordelia are to thank, for this opportunity. And, as nervous as she had been at first, she’d thrown herself into the job; spent weeks before she even met with them doing her best to learn all she could about the Maa-alused and their culture, as well as their leader, Falk. 

In this regard, Cordelia had been immensely helpful — offering advice and tips — and so that first day, she had walked in with a little more confidence, head held high and ready to show them all that she could do this. 

Aoife has been acting as the liaison between the two groups for around three months now, and she thinks that, all things considered, it’s been going smoothly. The Maa-alused were wary of her at first, but she took her time, asked questions and listened, and by the second month, she knew many by name — and vice versa — and she felt a little more at ease, being among them.

Falk, however, has been… complicated. 

She doesn’t think he hates her, or even dislikes her, but he is so cautious around her; guarded in both speech and actions, and while she wishes it were not so, Aoife can hardly blame him. His people have gone through so much hardship, and he only wants to protect them, a heavy burden resting on his shoulders, so she is patient, and will let him come to her, as one might with a feral animal. 

At least Sanja, his trusted companion, seems to have taken to her. The fortune teller is always happy to chat with her, and is often the one Aoife deals with, trusted by Falk to see to the needs of their people. 

_He’ll come around_ , she tells herself, full lips curving into a smile, refusing to wallow in self-pity. Aoife prides herself on being a people person, and she knows all she needs to do is show him that he can trust her, that she has the best intentions at heart for his people.

Something light touches her arm and she starts, realizing it is Sorina, with a hand now at her shoulder. “Come along,” the blonde urges, nodding toward the clearing just ahead, where the Maa-alused have made their home, “we should not be late, you know how much he despises tardiness.”

“True,” Aoife giggles, the two of them setting off, making their way down the leaf-strewn path, “he’s a real stickler for punctuality, that one.”

All around them, the colors of autumn burst to life, one final display of color before the winter sets in. Red and gold mingle above, setting the treetops aflame, and she can smell the shifting of seasons, the crisp chill lingering in the air. Nature hangs now in that delicate balance of life and death, a dance of change, and for a moment, Aoife misses the endless forests of the Autumn Court, where one might get lost for hours among the gleaming twilight trees, their leaves catching the moonlight and reflecting it back, dappling the ground in a soft, vibrant silver hue.

She spent only a little bit of time, in the Autumn Court — visited with her family, for diplomatic affairs — and while she never cared for their obsession with time, or the strict upkeep of rules, their woodlands were a sight to behold. These, while beautiful, are only a pale comparison and she tries, with all her might, to ignore the pang of nostalgia now pricking at her heart.

Even leaving as she did, and gaining contentment in this new life, she still finds herself homesick, from time to time.

They exit off the path and into the clearing, the tents and makeshift homes coming into sharp focus, and Aoife cannot quite keep her grin from widening. Even after all they have experienced, all the pain and terror, these people have managed to make a home for themselves, to build a community where they can live in peace, enjoying their lives and the companionship of one another.

Under normal circumstances, she and Sorina would be accompanied by other agents — Sorina has quite a few, under her command — but the Maa-alused dislike having so many strangers in their home, are wary of unknown faces walking among them, and so for now, it is only the two of them. Typically, it would be Aoife alone, but with how strange the nature of the mission, the Agency felt it best if Sorina were with her, just in case.

And though she doubts it will be necessary, Aoife does feel a little better, with having the demon at her side.

The walk through the grounds, to where Falk resides, is a short one, and as they make their way through the homes, Aoife allows herself to bask in the warmth of this environment. Colors of all sorts abound, rich and dynamic, and she can hear the sounds of people — adults chattering and children laughing — all around, from every corner and direction. Delicious scents fill the air, cloying and tantalizing, and as they pass by, many of the Maa-alused greet her with smiles, or nods, acknowledgements that she is welcome here.

They are nearly to their destination, the rich black of Falk’s home standing stark amidst the sea of color, when a burly man — Indrek, she recalls — stops them with a shout, jogging to meet them. Aoife turns to face him, Sorina only a step behind her, and she smiles, but the expression falters as she takes note of the worry shining in his dark gold eyes. 

“Indrek,” she greets, as he slows to a half in front of her, forced now to crane her head back to meet his gaze, “it’s good to see you, how are you? And your wife, Jelena?”

“We are both well, thank you,” Indrek responds, though his gaze is now on Sorina, regarding the woman with a wary look before his eyes slide back to Aoife, lips thinning, “I take it you are here to deal with the window in the forest?”

Aoife hears a small, sharp intake of breath and then Sorina is beside her, a frown tugging at her lips. “There was no mention of a window,” she states, and though her voice is as serene as ever, Aoife can hear the worry lacing the words, “the report only made mention of a small tear.”

“Aye,” Indrek nods, thick braids swaying at the moment, bumping against his back, and the deep lines of his face are creased, expression shadowed. “I do not know if window is a good word for it, truth be told, but it is what my wife calls it.”

Well, this is fantastic. They’ve only just arrived, and things are already weirder than originally anticipated. But, Aoife refuses to let this deter her; she is here to do a job, and by the Gods, she will do it.

“We’re on our way to speak with Falk,” she says, offering Indrek a smile that she hopes will, in some way, ease his concerns, “I promise, I won’t leave until this is dealt with.”

His weathered face softens and he offers her a smile of his own, softer, a little hesitant, but there all the same. “Thank you, we are lucky, to have you helping us,” he assures, and the praise makes her heart swell, lips spreading into a wide grin. “But if you are looking for Falk,” Indrek continues, turning to the left, arm stretching out as he points toward the dense woodlands on the other side of the clearing, “he is there, with Sanja, examining the window.”

“Thank you, Indrek,” Sorina offers, giving the man a slight bow of her head, golden strands dancing in the light breeze, “we appreciate the help, and insight, you have given us.”

The dismissal is clear, and so Aoife bids the man farewell, with yet another promise of getting the bottom of this. He thanks them both and heads back the way he came, dark hair glinting in the late afternoon sun. As he leaves, she looks to Sorina, who is wearing an expression of intense thought, brows drawn and pinched. 

Before she can say anything, however, Sorina speaks, and her voice is clipped. “Tell me, Agent Sìthean, what do you make of this supposed window in the woods?”

Aoife turns the question over in her mind, but the answer comes quickly enough, clear as crystal. “Sounds like a door,” she begins, tapping a finger against her chin, hand at her hip, “a tear in the veil between worlds, likely made by mistake,” or on purpose, but she’d _really_ prefer if it were a mistake.

“Do you think you can close it?” 

That is the million dollar question, isn’t it? 

Portals are nothing new to the Fae, they have been using them for years beyond counting. Fairy rings were the most popular — what better way to entice a curious mortal? — and while they have fallen out of fashion, something Aoife considers a shame, there is no other race who deals with doors between worlds, the way the Fair Folk do.

“I think so, it’s been some time, since I last dealt with one,” she admits, because it is better to be honest in this situation, lest she look like a fool, “but what is that human saying, some things are like riding a bicycle?”

There is a twitch, barely noticeable, at the corner of Sorina’s lips and Aoife feels some of the tension leak out of her. “I suppose we shall see if the expression holds truth,” the demon sighs, and with that, they continue, feet carrying them down a different route, away from the large black tent and toward the forest.

As they approach the tree line, Aoife shivers, a chill suddenly creeping through her and she frowns, eyeing the woods with a cautious glare. There is something dark and ominous about the forest, shadows clinging and swallowing the light, and she feels that by entering, she is surrendering herself to some fearsome beast, to be devoured whole.

Magic lives within these woods. Sits here, in the dark, and festers, aged and hungry, ever patient.

Just at the edge of the forest, stark against the dark backdrop, stand Falk and Sanja, their gazes trained on the two agents making their way closer. Sanja offers them a smile, blue eyes crinkling at the edges, and her face is warm, lit by the expression, dressed in a simple outfit, the color of earth — rich browns and vibrant green, as if she were meant to be one with the woods themselves — and she is a welcome sight, familiar and friendly.

Next to her, Falk stands tall, arms tucked regally behind his back and he regards her alone, golden irises aware of her every move. And it is foolish, downright ridiculous, but Aoife feels her heart flutter at the sight of him, that lean face wearing a stern look, pale brows furrowed from worry. _Stop it_ , a voice in her mind whispers, tone scolding, _he’s handsome, but you’re on a job_. Right, of course; so what if he’s handsome, and so well dressed, black robes lined with silver and embroidered with rich blue, crisp and nary a wrinkle in sight.

Definitely a stark contrast to her own outfit, a pair of skinny jeans and a bright top, pale pink in color and covered in little red strawberries, the sleeves ending in small frills. And just like that, her desire to dress comfortably for this mission seems more and more like a _terrible_ idea. 

Oh well, at least she looks cute, which Aoife thinks has to count for _something_ , right?

“Agent Sìthean, Ms. Ambroise,” Sanja greets, tone rich and inviting, and she steps toward them, hands clasped in front of her, “we thank you, for coming all this way on short notice.”

“Of course! We’re here to help you, in whatever way we can,” Aoife offers, glancing between the two, aware that not once this whole time has Falk taken his eyes off her, his gaze burning through her like a brand. “Why don’t you show us the tear, and we can see what we’re dealing with?”

Sanja nods, thick brown hair framing her face like a wild halo, and she turns back to face the woods, gesturing for them to follow. “It is further in,” she explains and, as they near, Falk stirs into action, spinning on his heel and falling into step beside Aoife, who does her best _not_ to think about why, or to pay any mind to the subtle look Sorina tosses her way.

“The strange thing appeared earlier this week,” Sanja continues as they break past the tree line and step into the gloom of the forest, the air turning colder, oppressive almost, “a few of the children noticed it, said it sang to them,” she says and just like that, all thoughts of Falk and his presence at her side are forgotten — or at least, moved very low on the list — as Aoife frowns, her own steps growing hurried, something akin to dread pricking at the corners of her mind.

“What do you mean it sang to them? Was it words, or just a melody?” And she knows, even from her limited experience with them, that singing portals are rarely anything good; they are a lure, a hook meant to catch something, or rather, _someone_.

Beside her, matching her stride easily with his longer legs, Falk makes a quiet sound. “They each gave a different account, heard different voices or songs, in their minds,” he says, the deep timbre of his voice almost deafening, in the silence of the grove, “but so far, only the children have been able to hear the melody, for the rest of us, it is quiet.”

Her mind swirls with this new information, and on her right, Aoife can feel Sorina tensing, no doubt wondering why none of this was included in their report. A concern she shares, as this presents a whole new set of potential issues.

“Aside from this, have you noticed any other strange occurrences?” More often than not, when a tear like this is opened, _something_ slips through; be it a creature or just more magic, either can be disastrous in different ways. “Any sightings or feelings? Even if it seems trivial, it may be related to this so-called window.”

For a moment, neither Falk nor Sanja respond, and she is ready to speak again, to press them, when Falk sighs, a hand rising to his face, taloned fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “Some of our items have gone missing, bits of clothing and food, but nothing of true value,” he says, accent lilting and lovely — _stop it, Aoife_ — and he spares her a glance, lips curling into a scowl, “the thefts began only a day after the tear appeared, but we have not been able to determine if they are connected or merely a coincidence.” 

“I would venture that it is more than a simple coincidence,” Sorina supplies, a hint of apprehension lingering in her tone, and Aoife is inclined to agree with her, the timing lining up far too well to be nothing.

Falk says nothing more, however, and so the group continues their trek in relative silence, broken only by the sound of their footsteps, muffled by the damp ground beneath. The forest itself is quiet, eerily so, and it feels _wrong_ , out of sorts; missing are the sounds of life, birdsong and insects, and instead all she hears is nothing. 

The dread filling her mind, however, is loud; a siren, screaming for her attention, and she tries to ignore it, hoping that there is no reason truly to worry.

But of course, there is.

Aoife senses the disturbance before she sees it, feels the tingle of magic dance over her flesh, and it sends every nerve in her body into high alert, on guard and hackles rising. Even as it finally comes into view, she knows one thing for sure: whatever — or whoever — made this portal, it is not fae in origin. 

When she finally does see it, her breath catches, and she stops, feet slowing to a halt, eyes fixed on the sight resting ahead of her. It hangs in the middle of a small clearing, about a foot or so above the ground, torn at the edges and wide enough for a child, at the most, or a small creature to slip through. The air around it and within shimmers, as if it were a mirage, an illusion or trick of the eyes, and she can see the forest resting behind it, a trick no doubt meant to lure in those curious enough to inspect it.

Ivy, vibrant and green, crawls through the cracks, wraps around the edges of the tear, and Aoife is unsure of where it might be coming from, can see no vines connecting it, and assumes it is a product of the magic itself, grown and nurtured by it.

“We dare not get close to it,” Sanja says, now looking at her, the smile gone and uncertainty clouding her features, “but your kind are used to these things, yes?”

 _Unfortunately_ , she muses, biting her tongue to keep the word from tumbling out, hands trembling at her sides. Though she cannot pinpoint why, there is something about this portal, innocent as it may appear, that makes her want to run; to turn and flee, as far as her legs will carry her. 

But of course, she can’t do that. 

She has a job, and she will see it done.

A deep breath to steady the nerves, and to draw forth the strength of her own magic, blooming at the tips of her fingers. She steps forward, but is stopped, a hand at her elbow and she looks down, thin fingers curled there, pale skin stark against her own rosy complexion. Aoife glances up to find Falk closer now, so close his scent washes over her — petrichor and cloves, an earthen thing, rich and natural — and she finds it intoxicating, coiling around her senses like tendrils of smoke, leaving her mind a haze.

He is silent, keen eyes studying her, searching her face for something she cannot know, and though the words remain unspoken, she can see them in his gaze, hear them in the quiet of his breathing. _Be careful_ , he warns her, in his own way, and she nods, a move that seems to satisfy him, enough to let her go.

Aoife moves away from the others, past Sanja, and toward the door that should not exist. The closer she gets, the worse it feels; like lightning dragging across her flesh, charged and heavy and stinging. It clashes with her own magic, slams into it like a wave, and each swell seems to tell her, _you do not belong here, I am not meant for you_.

Well, too bad.

Once she is only a few steps from it, she closes her eyes and stretches out a hand, fingers hovering inches away from the tear. She won’t touch it, not yet, and not until she knows if she can even close the thing, but she must check something first. Gently, Aoife calls upon her magic, as easily as one might breathe, and feels it reach out, brushing against the portal. For a brief moment, nothing happens, and then, the pain comes. Freezing and burning, filling her blood with molten iron, and she stumbles away, yanking her arm back, tucking it close against her chest.

“Agent Sìthean! Are you alright?” Sorina calls, and Aoife turns to look at her — at all of them, worry clear on their faces — and nods, shaking, fingers numb.

“Yes,” she says, aware of the way her voice trembles, “the damn thing bit me, is all!”

Whatever this portal is, it clearly _doesn’t_ like her, and right now, the feeling is very much a mutual one.

Her attention returns to the tear, shimmering and beautiful in its own strange way, eyes narrowed and expression dark. It might have teeth — so to speak — but her own magic is nothing to scoff at, and even better? She has a feel for it now, knows that despite its ferocity, she _can_ close it.

The ritual is a simple enough task, at least. A bit of blood, drawn forth by way of the little pocket knife she keeps tucked on her at all times, and Aoife closes her eyes, stretching out her hand one more time. She can feel her own magic swirling to life within her, rising to the surface like the dawn — warm and soft and glowing, spring incarnate, the power of new life — and it pours through her veins, twines through the nooks and crannies, and blossoms like a flower.

She is a child of the Spring Court, daughter of its Lady, and she has power enough for this, to seal what should never have been opened.

Blood drips from the wound in her palm, crimson beads trickling down her wrist and falling, to the forest floor below, staining the grass and with each pulse of stinging pain, the spell grows, building within her like a storm. Words rise in her throat and she speaks, in a language she knows in her heart, a part of her she so rarely indulges in, has been content to leave behind but can never fully separate from. They are like a melody and her tongue forms the syllables in a way that feels like home and distantly, like a dim echo, she hears a chime.

It rings through the air and she knows what it means: the spell is working.

Deep inside of her, the storm crests, swells, and finally, breaks free. Aoife opens her eyes in time to see the ivy burning away and the air seems to shake, quivering and gleaming, and slowly, but surely, the tear begins to mend itself. Closes, fuses back together, and the charred leaves float to the ground, shriveled and blackened, turning to ash, seeping into the soil.

She stops only when it is her magic, and her magic alone, that she can sense. Lowers her arm, aching and numb, and lets the spell go, allows it to flow out of her and into the earth beneath her, returning to its source. Flowers will bloom here, she knows; a byproduct of her gift, and Aoife thinks it will be a welcome change, to the gloom of the woods. _This place could do with a bit of color_ , she muses, and takes a small step back, body trembling.

Quite a while, it’s been, since she last cast a spell like this. 

Her heart pounds in her chest, flutters against her ribs and she turns to face the others, forcing a smile. “Told you I could — ” but she never finishes, the words stuck in her throat as suddenly, darkness rushes up to meet her.

When next she opens her eyes, she is no longer in the forest, but in a bed, soft and plush and very much _not_ her own. Panic coils in the pit of her stomach, cold and heavy, and she shoots up, only to stop, dizziness washing over her like ice water. Aoife groans, but the sound becomes a strangled yelp when she feels a hand at her shoulder.

“Peace, Agent,” and the voice, deep and musical, is one she recognizes immediately. Falk sits next to the bed in a simple chair, silver hair slung over his shoulder, braided and shining in the firelight that fills the room. “You are safe, you fainted.”

Oh, great, that’s just _wonderful_.

Aoife forces herself to relax, takes a shuddering breath and leans back, his hand falling away, leaving the spot feeling strangely cold. “The tear, is it…?” She lets the question hang in the air, unsaid, and he nods, lips forming a rare, half smile.

“Yes, it is closed,” he tells her and it is faint, but she swears she hears a faint hint of respect, in his words. “The spell took your energy, and so we brought you here.”

“And where is here, exactly?”

“My room.”

Heat blossoms in her cheeks and spills down, the flush racing across her flesh. At her side, Falk chuckles, apparently amused by her reaction, and she would swat at him, if she were not consumed by the sudden urge to just vanish into thin air. Out of all the beds in this place, why did they have to choose _his_?

Quiet falls between them, and for now, she is content to let it sit. Takes a moment to gather her thoughts and her wits, mind foggy. It’s embarrassing, but not surprising; to use such a spell after so long, it makes sense that her body would react poorly.

Even if that doesn’t explain, still, _why_ they chose _his_ bed to put her in.

“There was a child, also,” Falk says, cutting through the silence, and the words bounce in her head, mind scrambling to make sense of them. “She was found in the woods near the… tear,” he adds, uneasy with the sentence, “she is elven, speaks none of our tongue, but the woman with you, the _kurivaim_ , she is with her.”

“I take it she was the one behind the missing clothes and food, then?”

“Yes, she was hungry,” he sighs, tapping a taloned finger against his knee, in a rhythm she does not recognize, “we have fed her, and clothed her better. She has taken to Jelena, she will care for the child.”

Aoife raises a brow, head cocking to the side. “The Agency will likely want to see her,” she states, but he merely waves her words away.

“No, she will stay here,” and there is a finality to his words that tells her not to bother arguing. 

Falk stands then, movements graceful and extends a hand to her, golden eyes sparkling in the firelight, emotions dancing there that she cannot name, but knows all the same. “Come, _Saialille_ , or your companion may come in to glower at me again.”

The idea of Sorina glowering at _anyone_ is enough to make her giggle and she slips her hand into his own, allowing him to pull her out of the bed and to her feet. He keeps a hold on her and when she sways, lightheaded, his arm curls around her, keeping her upright. A hand presses into the small of her back, scorching through the fabric of her shirt, and she dares a look up, that heat returning.

For a moment, neither move, and Aoife can feel her heart thundering in her chest, like a beast howling to be freed. There is a split second where all reason goes out of her mind and she gets the powerful, terrible urge to kiss him, to know what he might taste like, to feel his lips on her own, and she wonders, would he kiss her back? 

But then his hand moves, slides away from her and she clears her throat, that voice in her head chiding her for being so ridiculous. Falk takes a step back, putting some distance between them, and yet his hand lingers in hers, a comforting anchor, before it too leaves, slipping away like water through her fingers.

The moment is gone, falls around them like rain, and when he turns to leave, she follows him.

Sorina is glad to see her — even hugs her, arms thrown around her neck — and she explains that in the short time she has been asleep, things have been settled. The child, Renna, will be allowed to stay among the Maa-alused; with the Agency checking in on her, of course, to watch for any possible danger she might pose. Aoife has a chance to meet the girl, a scrawny little thing with wild burnt copper hair and big, fierce brown eyes.

She is terrified, lost in a world that is not her own, but when they leave, Renna seems happy enough, tucked behind Jelena’s leg, peeking out and even offering a wave.

“Well,” Sorina begins as they head back to the SUVs, her shoulders sagging as she allows herself a rare moment of exhaustion, “that went well, all things considered.”

“Except for the part where I blacked out,” Aoife mutters, hand flexing at her side, still tingling and warm from where Falk held it, “but I am glad the girl will be cared for, she seems young, hopefully she’ll be able to adjust and have a happy life.”

Ahead of them, the sleek black vehicles come into view, and Aoife can feel her body aching to sit down, to just go home and take a nice, long bubble bath, to soak away the pain and embarrassment.

“I think she will, she is strong, to have survived the journey here,” Sorina says, something heavy in her tone that pricks at Aoife, but she leaves it be, knows better than to pick at it. “And you? Are you okay?”

“Me? Oh, sure, I’m fine,” she laughs, and in a way, she is; sure, she is tired and sore and trying very hard _not_ to think about the way his eyes looked, piercing through her, but Aoife is also proud. She came here to do a job, and she did it, so she thinks a little pride is in order, really. “Though, you couldn’t have picked a different bed to put me in? Do you know how awkward that was, waking up in there?”

A chuckle and she glances over, to find Sorina staring at her, blue eyes glinting oddly in the growing twilight. “He insisted on it being his bed, and we are meant to be keeping the peace with them, Agent Sìthean.”

Right, of course.

She rolls her eyes and reaches out, yanking open the door as she begins to climb inside. Tries not to think about the crimson staining her cheeks, or the little name he gave her, the way it echoes in her mind, like a song on repeat.

Marigold, he had called her, and she wonders if he knows that they are her favorite flower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and/or comments are appreciated! I'm also on [tumblr!](https://elmshore.tumblr.com/)
> 
> The Estonian used in this (and if any of these are inaccurate, please let me know!):  
>  _Kurivaim_ : Demon.  
>  _Saialille_ : Marigold.


	30. the start of something new (falk/female character)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Day 30: Night) Falk pays Aoife a late night visit, and some things are revealed.
> 
> This is **part two** of a two part series, it follows Day 29.

It is well past midnight when she decides to head to bed. 

Aoife drags herself off the small, plush couch and stands, raising her arms high above her head, stretching until she hears a light _pop_ in her lower back. She lets out a contented sigh, arms falling back to her sides, and turns, reaching for the remote left on the cushions. Grabs it and hits the power button, the screen ahead of her going black, images fading away to nothing.

Silence fills her home and she yawns, dropping the remote back onto the sofa, feet carrying her around the little coffee table and toward the hallway, that leads to her room. It is typical, she knows, for agents to live at Agency-owned facilities, but Aoife has spent centuries living among others, never given true privacy, and so she pushed to have a little house of her own, a space for herself, and in the end, the Agency allowed it. Their one stipulation being that she would be responsible for the upkeep and utilities, but it is a fair trade, she thinks, to have a place to call home.

Besides, it may be small, but it has a quaint — almost cozy — charm to it. Nestled near a forest, only fifteen minutes from the Warehouse, and she even has a little garden outside; a place to grow flowers and fruits and to feel a little more connected to nature, a little more at peace.

Her trek is a short one and as she goes, she is careful to turn off the lights behind her, casting the living room in shadow behind her, lit only by the little rabbit-shaped night light she has plugged into the wall. 

Not because the dark scares her, but just because it’s so cute.

Reaches her room and pauses, fingers hovering above the knob, suddenly having the sense that something is… _off_. Not dangerous, just different, and she frowns, head tilting to the side, green eyes narrowing. Had she forgotten something? Nothing comes to mind, and besides, the feeling is coming from _inside_ her room, which is ridiculous — she had just been in there an hour or so ago, to have a shower, what could have possibly changed in that short amount of time?

 _Only one way to find out_ , she muses and, steeling herself, she pushes the door open.

The room is dark, thin slivers of moonlight cascading in through the open blinds, and for a moment, nothing appears out of sorts. Until, that is, she realizes the room is not empty; there is a figure standing near her vanity, engulfed in shadow, save for the glow of their eyes — golden and bright and so very familiar.

“Falk,” she calls and steps inside, hand jutting out to flick on the light, the man coming into sharp focus.

He regards her silently, those keen eyes fixed on her with an intensity that has her skin flushing, heat zigzagging through her and it is slight, but she notices the way his gaze drags down her form, taking in the sight of her, and now that heat is something else, embarrassment flooding through her. Because there he stands, dressed as sharply as ever, and here she stands, dressed in her pajamas — a cute little tank top and matching shorts, mint green and covered with little rabbits.

Because naturally, she didn’t expect to have company tonight, and least of all for it to be _him_ , of all people.

“You look well,” he says, and she can see amusement gleaming in his eyes, but he says nothing regarding her attire, merely takes a careful step forward, hands folding behind his back.

It takes her a moment longer than it should, to realize that he is referring back to the incident a week prior, when she used a bit too much magic and collapsed, winding up in his bed afterwards. The memory is enough to make the flush on her cheeks deepen, spilling down her throat and leaving her too warm, despite the chill in the air. 

Aoife can still recall the way her hand fit in his, and the feel of his arm around her, holding her close, holding her steady. Has recalled it multiple times, in fact, and wow, is she regretting _that_ now.

“Thank you,” she manages, hoping her voice sounds normal, and in an effort to allay some of her shame, Aoife moves further into her room, aware of his gaze following her every step. “You know, it’s rude, to lurk in a woman’s room, right?”

“I was not lurking,” Falk counters, but the corner of his lips twitch, and she tuts, taking a seat at the foot of her bed, crossing her legs at the ankles. “I merely came to see you.”

She blinks and leans forward, hands braced against the edge of the mattress. “Oh? Worried about me, were you? Decided to hop through the mirror and lurk in my dark room, waiting for me to come back?”

Another step forward, this time pivoting to face her, and he is taller than her under normal circumstances, but he practically looms over her now. “I was worried, yes, but,” and here he pauses, brows drawn, confusion evident on his face, and the unfinished sentence hangs between them, heavy and awkward.

“But what?”

Falk studies her through narrowed eyes and she gets the feeling that this is a little like playing with fire, inching closer to the flame only to pull back at the last moment, seeing how long it takes before you wind up burned. 

A little scary, but a little thrilling, too.

“ _Ma tahtsin sind näha_ ,” he admits, and she realizes, then, that he is hiding behind his native tongue, assuming that she cannot understand him.

So, she smiles, and says, “And why did you want to see me?”

Shock passes over his fine, graceful features, there and gone in an instant. He glares, but there is no malice or true anger in that beautiful gaze. “It would seem you are full of surprises, _saialille_ ,” he murmurs, and the nickname throws her off balance, heart fluttering in her chest, and she licks her lips, not missing the way his eyes dart to her mouth, if only for a beat. 

“It’s one of my many talents,” she quips, in an attempt to ignore the fire growing in her belly, and then raises a hand, pointing a finger in his direction, “and you didn’t answer my question, why did you want to see me?”

There is a sudden, simmering tension in the air, skittering across her skin like electricity, and when he moves closer to the bed, closer to _her_ , Aoife fights against the urge to back away. She sits up straighter, instead, and meets his gaze directly, emerald on gold, and waits, to see where this might lead. Perhaps it is only her imagination, this magnetic pull between them, or perhaps it isn’t? Maybe this is real, but either way, she wants to know.

His skin is cool to the touch, when he reaches for her, fingertips brushing along the curve of her cheek and down, tracing the line of her jaw. 

“I think you know why, _Aoife_ ,” Falk whispers, and his scent envelops her — fresh rain and cloves, warmth and earth and comfort — and she draws in a quiet, shuddering breath, because the way he says her name sounds like music. “I find my mind occupied with thoughts of you, asleep or waking, and it is… maddening.”

A thumb sweeps across her lips, featherlight and teasing, testing, and she holds his gaze, plucks up all of her courage, and asks, “Why did you come here, tonight?”

Falk is quiet, considering, and for a moment, the only sound she can hear is the thundering of her own heart, the rush of blood in her ears. Then, he is moving, leaning down, and his words are like flames, threatening to consume her.

“ _Vajan sind_ , _saialille_.”

She cannot be sure, who kisses who first, and as his mouth covers her own, Aoife finds that it doesn’t really matter. Nothing matters, now, except for him, and this.

His tongue slicks over her own as he licks into her mouth, insistent in his need for her, and she moans, the flavor of him filling her — mint and pomegranate, invigorating and intoxicating — and she reaches for him, bunching the fine, embroidered fabric between trembling fingers.

It is consuming and devouring, his need for her, and when she catches his bottom lip with her teeth, a low growl reverberates from deep in his chest, rumbling down her throat like honey. Hands, fiery brands, settle at the curve of her waist, and his mouth leaves hers, beginning a pilgrimage across every inch of exposed skin. Falk presses searing, open-mouthed kisses down the column of her neck, marking and biting and tasting, leaving none of her untouched. 

He guides her back with a nudge and she is quick to comply, scooting further up the bed as he follows, settling comfortably between her open legs, as if he belongs there, as if he were always meant to be there. 

She pushes at his coat, wanting it off, but her arms are shaking and her fingers slip and he laughs, a rich sound that sends a wave of heat pooling between her thighs. With an ease borne from both age and no doubt experience, he slips out of the jacket and it falls, discarded to the floor. His mouth never leaves her, tongue pressing firm against her pulse, and he nips at the juncture of her shoulder, soothes it with a lick, and she is going crazy, mind a haze, foggy with lust and need and want. The weight of him above her is both welcome and not enough, not nearly enough.

The hands at her waist move, slide across her stomach and up, past the hem of her shirt, tugging it up. It soon joins the coat on the floor and now there is nothing blocking his mouth from continuing its journey, those soft lips and sharp teeth at her breasts. He takes one in his hand, rolls the nipple between his fingers, and she arches, bowing up to meet him.

A tongue, burning and rough, glides over the other sensitive nub, swirls there, and she thinks she may be saying his name, but her own voice is little more than a distant echo, there but somehow unheard, lost in the fog that fills her mind.

Falk is relentless, in his worship of her, and she is drowning, pulled under the wave of sensations, aflame and aching. He explores her body, commits it to memory — that spot just behind her ear, that makes her whine, or the way she moans, when he presses a kiss against her inner thighs, slick now with her arousal — and relishes in the pleasure of her, in seeing her undone at his touch.

And there is a moment, a quiet, solitary thing, where he looks at her, an unspoken question shining in his brilliant eyes. _Are you sure_ , they ask, and she answers him with a kiss, bruising and hungry, and it is all he needs.

There is no rush, no need to hurry things, and both are content, to take their time in this. He draws her to the edge more than once, sends her free falling and soaring and it is like nothing she has ever felt before, this passion, this wanting. 

She memorizes the way he looks, when he loses himself to the pleasure; the way his lips part and he clings to her, whispering her name like a prayer against the hollow of her throat, the space above her heart. Aoife knows that even if this never happens again, if this is the only night they will spend together, that she will carry the memory of it for the rest of her days, will keep it tucked safely away, under lock and key.

When they are spent, reduced to a tangle of limbs and mingled breaths amidst the ruins of her sheets, she wonders if he will leave, if this is all he came for, but he stays. Pulls her close, arms curled around her, and the last thing she knows, before sleep claims her, is the feel of his lips, pressing against her shoulder, and his voice, rough at the edges, whispering, “Sleep, _armatus_.”

Falk is gone when she wakes, but the spot beside her is still warm and his scent still clings to the sheets, to her skin. His coat hangs atop her bedpost and she smiles, fingers toying with the cuff, because the message is clear.

This will not be the end of this strange, new thing blossoming between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and/or comments are appreciated! I'm also on [tumblr!](https://elmshore.tumblr.com/)
> 
> The Estonian used in this (and if any of these are inaccurate, please let me know!):  
>  _Saialille_ : Marigold.  
>  _Ma tahtsin sind näha_ : I wanted to see you.  
>  _Vajan sind_ : I need you.  
>  _Armatus_ : Love.


	31. happy halloween (mason/nb detective)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Day 31: Halloween) Mason doesn't quite understand this holiday, or the traditions, but he's willing to try for his little family.

Autumn has come to Wayhaven.

There is a distinct chill in the air, crisp and biting, and it carries with it the scent of candied apples, cinnamon and caramel, sweet and rich. All around, the colors of fall abound and the trees are set aflame with reds and golds and hues in between, one final dazzling display before the onset of winter. Even the shops in the town have not gone untouched — little ghouls and ghosts adorn windows and doors, cobwebs hang from awnings — and no matter where one looks, the evident cannot be ignored: fall is indeed here.

Mason hates it, too. 

Or, well, he hates the _cold_. Holidays have never been a huge deal for him, truth be told, but he’s learned how to ignore them over his long life — and then re-learn them, because kids can’t seem to get enough of the celebrations — so really, it’s the cold that pisses him off.

And he’s aware that it will only get worse from here, that this is just a prelude for what is to come. Snow and rain and _misery_ , songs played over and over, and garish decorations assaulting his senses at every turn. Another year of Lyra begging for a pony or Luna demanding a spaceship, despite both being told repeatedly that _we don’t have anywhere to keep that stuff_. Mason knows the whole routine, by heart now: they’ll wake up, disappointed in not finding either of their ridiculous requests, and then be too distracted by the presents under the tree to care.

Then, the cycle will go dormant, until the next year.

He is grateful that for now, Orion is too young to actually _want_ anything — he just giggles at everything and seems content, with whatever he or Cordelia put in his hands.

If only every kid stayed that easy to please.

“Papa! We’re here!” 

Luna’s voice rings clear through the vehicle and cuts straight past the haze of his thoughts, dragging him back to reality and he blinks, only seeming to realize now that the car has stopped. Mason turns, glancing out the window, and frowns at the sight that greets him. 

A large sign hangs above an archway, with two large wooden displays of smiling pumpkins bracketing either side, and written in curly letters, _Old Man Perkins Pumpkin Patch_. Beyond that, a sprawling field, and more pumpkins than he’s ever since in his hundred years of living. Just beside the archway sits a rocking chair, and in that, sits an old man — presumably Old Man Perkins — swaying back and forth, a pipe in his mouth.

Behind him, the _clink_ of a seatbelt as it unfastens, and he turns to look at Cordelia, who appears downright thrilled to be here. And of course she is, this whole thing had been _her_ idea.

For some insane reason — he blames Farah, because he can — she got it into her head that she wanted the kids to carve pumpkins this year, and in the end, Mason never stood a chance; she’d given him _that_ look, the one with the pleading eyes and sweet smile and then his name, lilting and soft, and the kiss at the end really only sealed an already done deal, a sort of cherry on top for her victory.

He can remember growling a single _fine_ and her face lighting up like the sun, arms thrown around his neck.

So, here he is, picking out pumpkins to carve, because that’s apparently a fucking tradition or something. Mason isn’t sure who first sat down and decided to rip out the innards of a pumpkin and call it a festivity, but whoever they were, he’d love to punch them.

Cordelia is the first one out of the car — a sleek SUV, her old heap of junk finally retired years ago — and he follows, moving to the back door, opening it to reveal the grinning faces of his daughters, little mirror images of one another. And he tries to hang on to his annoyance, to wrap it snuggly around his shoulders, but it’s difficult, because they just look so damn _happy_.

Fuck, but he’s gone soft.

“All right, let’s go,” he grunts and it takes a moment, to unlatch them, but once they’re free, they slide out hurriedly, chattering between themselves. Across from him, Cordelia is working Orion free from his car seat, and the boy laughs, babbling all the while as she hoists him up and into her arms.

Once everyone is out, Mason shuts the door and turns, two little hands slipping into his own, Luna on his left and Lyra on his right, both practically vibrating in excitement. At his side, Cordelia appears, and Orion reaches for him, chubby cheeks dimpled with a large grin. Mason leans over and lets the boy pat his face, snorting when this seems to set him off into another fit of bright laughter.

“Careful, love,” Cordelia teases, adjusting the boy in her arms and smiling when he clings to her, “it’s dangerous to let a dragon swipe at you like that.”

Mason scoffs, but can feel a twitch at the corner of his mouth as he pulls back, arching a brow. “Sweetheart, I’m pretty sure he’s the tamest dragon to ever exist,” he states, only for Cordelia to laugh and it’s stupid, but even after all these years, the sound is enough to make his heart stutter-stall in his chest. 

Yeah, he’s definitely gone soft.

He still isn’t sure _why_ the kids are dressed up now — wasn’t that supposed to be something they did when they went begging for candy? — but Cordelia decided to let them wear the costumes all day, as a treat. So here he stands, a little astronaut on his left and a witch (to his grumbling displeasure) on his right, while a little dragon lies nestled in his wife’s arms.

Mason’s pretty sure that if, say, fifty years ago, someone had told him he’d be here — about to pick out pumpkins, with three kids and a wife — he would have laughed, or hit them, or both, and yet, here he is. So, guess the joke’s on him, huh?

“Well, hello there! And little miss Cordelia Watson, all grown up too!”

Old Man Perkins watches them from his station, pipe still lodged between his teeth and perpetually rocking, the chair squeaking with each sway, Mason scowling as he contemplates breaking the damn thing. “Have you come to get some pumpkins? I’ve got plenty of them! Big and small and all sorts in between!”

“It’s good to see you, Mr. Perkins,” Cordelia greets, clearly familiar with the strange old man, “and a Happy Halloween to you, as well. This is my — ” but her words are cut off by Luna, no longer content to be silent.

“We want the biggest you have!” Luna demands, tipping forward on her toes to study the man, who surveys her in return, his wrinkled face breaking out into a smile. “I want the largest pumpkin to ever exist!”

“Ah, you are a young lady after my own heart! A true connoisseur of pumpkins!”

Luna blinks and pulls back, head tilting to the side as she frowns, nose wrinkling. “A conna what?”

“It just means you enjoy pumpkins,” Cordelia offers helpfully, fingers smoothing over the little girl’s red hair, tucking it behind her ear before she steps forward, Orion leaning over her shoulder and waving at Mason and the twins, giggling when Lyra offers a wave in return. “We’re here to pick out three pumpkins,” she explains, and the man nods, pointing to a row of mini wagons lined up on his left.

“Take one of those, if you’re inclined! Just bring your selection back up here when you’re done, and I’ll see you off!” And Mason can’t figure out if he trusts this old man, with his oddly chipper attitude and his overwhelming love of pumpkins.

After thanking the old man, Luna first volunteers to pull the wagon, but Mason knows better than to trust her with that responsibility — not after the last time, when she rolled a shopping car over four different people’s toes in the supermarket — so he takes the handle, after securing Lyra atop his shoulders, and off they go, under the rickety archway and into the field.

Orange, orange, and more orange, intermingled with sprinkles of brown and green, as far as he can see. 

“Did he grow all these himself?” Mason asks, finding himself both horrified at the prospect of dedicating one’s life to the care of pumpkins but also, loathe as he is to admit it, a bit impressed, at the sheer quantity. 

“I think so? Mr. Perkins has always been an avid farmer,” Cordelia replies, and there is an edge of sadness in her smile now, a tinge of nostalgia in her voice, “he used to be friends with my father, so I’ve known him practically my whole life. He’s a kind man, if a little…” she pauses, rolling her lips as she searches for the right word, “ _enthusiastic_ , about his crops.”

“Never would have guessed,” he snorts, and it works, that sadness vanishing from her grin as she shakes her head. “Come on, let’s get these pumpkins so we can go home and disembowel them.”

She shudders, and manages to free a hand, shoving at his arm. “Don’t say it like that, it sounds, I don’t know, monstrous.”

“It’s the truth, sweetheart, and besides, that’s what this whole holiday is about right?”

Before she can respond, Luna gasps, loud and cracking, and darts off, hand slipping out of his. With a speed that almost impresses him, she barrels down the makeshift little path and leaps, landing atop what Mason is sure is the largest piece of fruit he’s ever seen. The pumpkin sways under her weight, but manages to stay upright, and she looks back toward them, beaming widely.

“This one! This is the one!”

“Luna, darling, that won’t even fit in the wagon,” Cordelia soothes, moving closer as she reaches for the girl, tugging her off and back to her feet.

“We don’t need the wagon,” Luna counters, head whipping around to look at Mason, gray eyes — the same as his own, in every way — sparkling in the afternoon sun. “Papa’s super strong, he can carry it!”

And while he’s pleased at the compliment, as well as the vote of confidence, he too shakes his head. “There’s no way that thing’s gonna fit in the car,” he says, then before she can argue further, adds, “no, go pick out something smaller.”

She glowers, lips curling into a scowl that could almost rival one of his own, and then turns, stomping off through the patch of pumpkins. 

Above, Lyra giggles and leans down, resting her chin atop his head. “Some of these pumpkins look weird, Papa,” she states, as Cordelia makes her way back to their side, “look, some of them are all lumpy!”

Mason follows the path of her finger and notes that she’s right; while most of the pieces seem normal enough, there are a few misshapen duds among the lot. He chuckles and drops the wagon handle, raising his arms and carefully, lifts her up, off his shoulders, and sets her on the ground, giving her a little nudge. “Go with your sister and pick one out,” he urges, and she heads off happily, quickly following after Luna, the little witch hat atop her head bouncing with each step.

“Girls, remember,” Cordelia calls, eyes fixed on their little retreating forms, “nothing too large! And don’t go out of our sight!”

“Okay, Mama!”

And despite his earlier insistence on hurrying this along, Mason finds that it isn’t so bad, standing here in an open field, watching his daughters wind their way through pumpkins, giggling and chattering, pointing out the best — or the worst — ones they can find. Orion has, by this point, dozed off and he can hear Cordelia humming, the sound just as soothing for him as it is for the baby, settling over his senses like a warm blanket.

He still doesn't get the appeal of this holiday, or fully understand the need for costumes or the obsession with being scared or the buckets of candy, but he thinks that maybe it has a _few_ perks. 

In the end, they wind up with three pumpkins — a nice round one for Luna, a lumpy one for Lyra (“I felt bad, leaving him all alone!”), and a smaller one for Orion, who they assume will be fine with his choice — and Mason knows the process of carving them is going to be a tedious one, messy and unfamiliar, but as they load the car up, each girl holding their own pumpkin securely in their laps, he decides it’s probably a little worth it.

As he’s climbing back into the car, he hears Old Man Perkins call, that same grin present on his weathered face, “Happy Halloween!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and/or comments are appreciated! I'm also on [tumblr!](https://elmshore.tumblr.com/)
> 
> And we're done! Thank you so much to everyone who has been along with me for this ride, it was tough in some places but I'm so glad I stuck with it!


End file.
